All the King’s Men
by Oldach's Dream
Summary: In the aftermath of a tragedy, a decision was made, and several happy endings were severely compromised. Introspective story with an underlying ChaseCameron pairing. Epilogue now posted. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

By: Oldach's Dream

Summary: In the aftermath of a tragedy, a decision must be made. Set in season three, after, but not linked to, the Tritter arc. Only pairing is a very slight Cameron/Chase.

Timeline: After Tritter but before Foreman resigns - no specific episode is needed as a springboard.

Disclaimer: I just mess with them.

A/N: I just got my computer back after a month of it being in repair and found this in a folder. I had completely forgotten about it and now honestly can't remember when or why I wrote it. I'm posting it because I hate things sitting on my desktop and going to waste. Please let me know what you think. This will be a multi-chapter story.

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All the King's Men

_Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall._

_Humpty Dumpty had a great fall._

_All the king's horses and all the king's men_

_Couldn't put Humpty together again._

Dr. Robert Chase didn't consider himself an easily-angered person. In some people this would have just been tossed aside as a generalization of character, the way some people had short tempers and others had a few too many pet peeves; not exactly enjoyable to work around, but for the most part, simply discarded.

Chase, however, had spent the majority of his adolescence and young adult life fighting off great, sometimes overpowering, waves of anger. Of fury, even. He'd been furious at his father for abandoning him, for leaving such a huge responsibility on his gangly, not yet fully broadened shoulders.

He'd hated his mother. For not being stronger, for not being able to handle her own problems without aid of alcohol. Mostly, though, for years, he'd hated himself. For agreeing to stay with her, for not forging a life of his own when he'd had the chance.

He turned his anger to God when even He'd not been able to quell the rage that never ceased growing inside him. He'd left the seminary because of that anger. That, at least, he did not regret.

Only coming to America, removing himself from everything he'd ever known, had even started to chisel away some of those pent up emotions. The rest he'd had to work long and hard for.

So when Dr. Robert Chase declares that he's a generally laidback individual, it's not just an overview of his personality, its something he's strived for. It's something he's struggled brutally for since he began practicing medicine, even more so since he started working for House.

And while his boss had no idea, the older man had helped quell even more of that anger. The rage that bubbled beneath the surface was even less palpable since he'd begun this fellowship. Reason and logic were what House taught him primarily, and that helped with the emotions he still felt but no longer gave into. And Chase was forever grateful.

What he was feeling right at this very moment, though, it contradicted the two sides of what he knew to be true. He knew that anger solved nothing, that expressing rage would only make him feel relieved for a short measure of time. Whatever was infuriating him would not go away simply because he unleashed his anger.

Only now he had House's voice in his head, too. Telling him that everyone responds to emotional triggers and logic often takes a backseat to that; but, if you managed to take control, to act appropriately and accordingly to what was going on, well, then you could be a successful doctor.

Only right now, fury _was _the correct response. Anger _was _the logical reaction. He had Lisa Cuddy screaming at him in a crowded hospital hallway, sounding one step away from hysteria. The death grip James Wilson had on her left arm was doing nothing to calm her.

"What the hell is going on?!" She shouted again. Her hair was rumbled and unprofessional, like she'd just rolled out of bed, and her clothes matched - jeans and a T-shirt were not appropriate hospital attire. Not unless you were House.

"I have an emergency." He responded, repeating himself, tilting his head away from the two sets of worried, fearful, desperately pleading eyes. He tried to make his escape. "I have to go."

But Cuddy was having none of that. "No!" She screeched. "You have to tell me what's going on! I get a call at two-thirty in the morning saying that three of my doctors are hurt, one's in critical care - I think I have a right to know what happened."

"The police can inform you." He tried again. His anger was starting to bubble over.

"No!" She shouted, drawing the attention of said police officers. "_You _can inform me! I'm your boss and I demand-"

And Dr. Robert Chase cracked. "NO!" He flung out his arms, as if physically releasing his fury in waves. "House is my boss! House is the one who was actually here to do something productive tonight! If it wasn't for him you wouldn't have three injured doctors, you'd have four DEAD ones!"

Wilson tried to intervene this time, not noting the shock on Cuddy's face. "What-"

But Chase wasn't even close to finished. "I'm sorry, but did it escape your attention that House got _shot _last year?! Did that not clue you in that maybe security around here isn't as tight as it could be?! You sit in your office and make all these big corporate decisions, who to wrangle money out of and what lawyers to hire. But you can't make a five minute phone call to boost our security system!"

Cuddy had withdrawn, all her own anger seemed to be gone. "Chase-" But the young Intensivist was still seeing red.

"I know you don't like House that much, but I didn't think you actually wanted him dead!"

"Now, wait a second," Wilson interrupted, and only got so many words out because Chase had to stop and take a breath, "Cuddy doesn't-"

"What?! What?" He shouted, not entirely sure what he was asking. "You know House! You both do. He pisses more people off than any other member of the hospital staff combined, _and _he has the most unpredictable patients. Our _team_, has the most unpredictable, emotionally unstable patients, and it never occurs to you - to either of you - that that might require a little extra security?!" His accent was so thick at this point; he wouldn't be surprised if they'd stopped understanding him.

They didn't try to talk again, just stared. Emotions from fear to guilt to anger passing over their features in quick bursts.

"_House _is my boss!" He shouted again. "At least House isn't completely oblivious to the reality of the world! You all call him jaded and untrusting! Well Guess what?! He _should _be untrusting! People suck! At least he doesn't turn a blind eye to the dangers of human nature!"

He was going to say more. He had so much more to drive home, but his pager - in typical doctor fashion - picked that moment to go off, reminding him that there was more going on tonight than just the reawakening of his long buried temper.

Without another glance to the Dean of Medicine or the Head of Oncology, Chase turned on his heel and walked the long corridor back to the stairwell, not wanting stop for the elevator in front of those people.

When House was waiting for him around the first corner he turned, he wasn't exactly sure why he was surprised, or even startled.

He was though, and he stepped back accordingly as he halted. "Hi." Was the first nervous word to leave his mouth. While his anger was still there and pulsating, he was logical enough to know that absolutely none of it could be fairly pointed at House.

Also, now that that small bit had been drained from his system, he could successfully bottle the rest to take out on his punching bag later.

The elder man just inclined his head slightly, with his left arm still wrapped protectively around his torso; it was hard for Chase not to recall the stitches he himself had given his boss not two hours ago.

"Heard you back there." He said typically, bluntly.

"Oh." monosyllabic was a good fallback.

"You yelled at Cuddy." And if Chase didn't know any better, he would have said there was a ghost of a smirk on his face.

"Yeah." He admitted. Obviously it would be dumb to try and deny it. "Wilson too."

"Impressive." Was all he said, and Chase wasn't quite sure if that was a subtle compliment or a subtle insult. Knowing House, he'd vote for the first, but the man's expression and tone gave away nothing.

Moments later, he reverted back into professional doctor mode. "Foreman's prepped for surgery. I didn't know if you wanted to be part of it or not." Simultaneously they began walking towards the end of the hallway, past the staircase and to the second set of elevators on this floor. House was walking slower than normal. On a good day, even with the limp, he could out-stride all three of his fellows. Today, Chase had to consciously slow his steps to match the taller man's.

"How's Cameron?" He asked in lieu of actually answering House's inquiry. He cared about Foreman on some level as a colleague, maybe even as a friend, but if he had to choose, it would be no contest.

House - being House - knew this. "Stable." He answered, pressing the elevator button with his thumb instead of his cane as he normally did, so as not to redistribute his weight. "Still unconscious, but that's normal, taking into account the high-dose sedative the ER gave her. She'll be out for another few hours."

"And her injuries?" Chase needs the confirmation from House just as a young child needs to hear from his father that there are no monsters under the bed or in the closet. Logically, he can predict the answer. Emotionally, he's drained from the last three or four hours, his building and pouring rage a few minutes prior.

"Same." House grunts, acutely aware of why Chase is asking the seemingly repetitive question, and obviously sympathetic, as he doesn't mock him one bit. "Broken arm, broken ankle, fractured cheek bone, cuts and bruises. That's it."

_That's it_. Sounds like a lot, Chase thinks as the elevator takes them to the third floor. But it could have been worse. Colossally worse.

"Right." He nods. "Do you want me participating in Foreman's surgery?"

Once the question is out, he's not sure why he's asked. Obviously House had left that decision up to him, it was the whole basis for his appearance in the hallway, the reason he'd heard Chase's long, loud rant. But Chase is torn now, between wanting to make the choice on his own and needing to leave it up to someone else. Someone he trusted.

"I think it's a good idea." The Diagnostician finally admits as the elevator doors ding and open. "I don't want the surgeons screwing up or taking shortcuts. I'm not in the mood to hire a new Neurologist."

"Alright." Chase nods, glad that House had told him what to do. Glad that it had correlated with what he wanted to do, and with what he knew was the right thing to do. After the turbulence of tonight, it was comforting to know that things were currently running as smoothly as they could be. "I'll go now."

So he went, walking fast down the hall towards the OR, and he didn't look back. He focused his thoughts on medical procedures and the cool, calculating movements that went into such operations.

He was caught up in all that, so glad to have a focus, a goal, that he was gone before he could see his boss lean heavily against the wall where he'd left him. He missed House's deep grunt of pain.

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Approximately thirty-six minutes before Dr. Chase's incredibly angry outburst, Lisa Cuddy was woken by the shrill ringing of her cell phone. As a doctor in charge of an entire hospital, she was constantly on call. Be it for medical emergencies or late night consent issues - and no, not only House had those problems – thus, she was more than used to waking up at two-thirty in the morning.

So when she rolled over and yanked her cell phone off her nightstand, she answered automatically, already getting responses prepared for the most typical emergency scenarios - and a few sarcastic quips in case it was House.

What she hadn't expected was the response to her sleepily muttered, "This is Dr. Cuddy." To be,

"This is Officer Hernandez from the Princeton Police Department. There's been an incident at your hospital tonight, and we need you to get down here right away."

Wide awake now, but still managing professional detachment, she sits up straighter in bed and asks in a controlled tone, "What's going on?"

"Three of your doctors were hurt; one of them is in critical care. I can't discuss details right-" there's a scuffling on the other end of the phone, the low murmur of voices that Cuddy tires desperately make out but can't. "-we need you down here. Now."

Then the phone clicks off and she's listening to static on the other end. It takes her less than five minutes to jump out of bed, pull on the closest clothes she can find, get all the necessary things together and bolt out the door.

Her mind is racing as she speeds towards Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital as fast as she deems safe this late at night, and only one thought keeps recurring - unless it was an issue in the Psych Ward - there's only one doctor whose likely to get into or cause this much trouble.

She fumbles around for her cell phone as she signals and gets on the highway. House's home number is fourth on her speed dial, so she tries that first, without really thinking. She realizes after a moment that the chances of him answering his phone this late at night if he is home are next to nothing, but she's too distracted to hang up and redial his cell.

On the fifth ring, though, just when she's expecting the answering machine, she hears a click and a mumbled, "'ello?"

For a brief moment she is inexplicably elated, overjoyed at knowing that House is not at the hospital, where all the madness of whatever's going on is obviously centered. Her high spirit crashes in an instant, however, when she hears another, slightly more coherent, "Hello?"

"Wilson?" She asks, feeling as if her heart just skipped a beat - even if she knows that's medically impossible.

"Cuddy?" The man sounded groggy, which was a fair way to sound after having just been pulled from sleep. The Administrator quickly assumed that her Head of Oncology was staying with House again because of another separation she hadn't been informed of.

"Yes," she answers shortly. "Is House there?"

_Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say-_

"No." He interrupted her internal mantra, sounding confused. "He's still at the hospital. Why?"

_Damn. _"No, it's probably nothing." She tries to convince herself as much as Wilson. "I just... I got a call. Something's wrong, at the hospital."

"Wrong?" He echoes. "Wrong how?"

"Cops calling me at two-thirty wrong." She admits, knowing she could trust him. "Three doctors seriously injured, wrong."

"House?" And the word is nothing less than a plea.

"I don't know." Still, she tries to sound calm, steady. "I'm about ten minutes out, I'm sure it has nothing to do with him. He's probably just making things worse."

"I'm coming in." Wilson says, somewhat unexpectedly. Then, as if sensing her confusion over the phone line, "I tried to call his cell a few hours ago. No answer. I didn't give it much thought then, but now I'm not sure."

"Right." She nods despite herself and speeds up. "I'll see you there."

o0oo0o

They'd been calm and rational at first. Wilson and Cuddy had arrived at almost the exact same moment, and made their way into the hospital together. Wilson didn't look much better than Cuddy; messed hair, rumbled McGill sweatshirt and faded jeans that were long enough to maybe be House's. But they'd managed to stay calm.

Then a few minutes passed and Cuddy could not find a single member of her own staff to talk to. The lobby of the hospital was teeming with police officers and other official people with lanyards draped around their necks, and none of them seemed keen on letting them go any further than the nurse's desk.

"The incident has been controlled," one of the officers informed her. "And your doctors have all been instructed to handle separate tasks."

"Could you be vaguer?" She snapped. "And instructed by whom? _I'm _the Dean of Medicine."

"I know." The same infuriatingly calm man had acknowledged. "And you'll be able to regain control of your hospital as soon as you answer a few questions for us."

"Okay." Cuddy finally agreed, understanding logically that if whatever had happened tonight had warranted police involvement, then it had been bad, and she was willing to corporate with these men and women long enough to understand what exactly had taken place.

But then the officer speaking to them had walked away for a moment and Cuddy and Wilson were left to look out amongst the groups of people collaborating in the hallway. It was funny, she noted in a detached sort of way, how different groups clumped together.

Uniforms stayed with uniforms, suits stayed with suits, semi-casual stayed with semi-casual, clipboards stayed with clipboards and Cuddy could only take educated guesses on which groups represented which facets of the government.

"Chase." Wilson's quiet word cut off her dazed stare and she whipped her head around to the sight of a familiar white lab coat.

Only as Chase got closer, she realized with no small amount of horror, that his doctor's coat _wasn't _the pristine white it should be. It was streaked instead with blood. No minute amount either, as it had also taken up residence on his shirt and pants. His tie, if he'd been wearing one today, was nowhere to be seen and his shirt was no longer tucked in.

"Dr. Chase!" Wilson found his voice in time, catching the Australian man's attention before he disappeared amongst the crowd. He stopped, but didn't move, so the two senior doctors made their way to him.

"What's going on?" Cuddy's emotional reaction was all too often to translate worry and fear into anger. And as she got closer and noticed that Chase had even more blood on him than had been visible from across the hall, and had yet to make a real facial expression, that was all she could feel. Fear.

"I have to go." The Intensivist said, ducking his head.

Cuddy would be having none of that. "No." She stated firmly. "Tell me what's going on."

"The police can inform you." He still wasn't making eye contact, and if there was something vaguely off-putting about his demeanor, she didn't sense it. Wilson obviously did, however, as he moved his right hand to her left arm and tugged gently.

"C'mon," he said quietly, trying to ease her worry, "Let's go talk to the cops."

But Cuddy wouldn't budge. "Chase, tell me what happened. Was it House? You're here, so it had to have been House, right?" Her eyes were searching, but the younger man refused to meet them.

"I have somewhere I need to be." And this time Cuddy could hear the strain in his tone. Wilson's grip on her arm tightened to a near-frantic level.

Still, she was resolved to know the truth. So, temporarily losing the hold she had on her temper she shouted, "What in the hell is going on!?"

Chase responded calmly a few more times when she shouted at him again and again. Cuddy was getting fed up with his seeming indifference, and she thought it was damn important that she portray that in her words.

What she hadn't considered, what Wilson could obviously see that she couldn't, was that Chase was dangerously close to tumbling off an edge as well. When the blonde-haired young man finally did start screaming, she reeled back.

It wasn't that she hadn't expected a response. She'd been hoping for a response, and she was praying that an answer or two might be audible in his anger. But as Chase shouted at her about being a bad administrator, about not being his boss, about how clueless they both were compared to House; all she could really process were the circumstances that most have laid themselves out for them to get here.

The context, in which House's mellow, young Intensivist could turn into the starkly infuriated train wreck of emotions, could have been nothing short of dire. Cuddy felt a lump in her throat thicken as Chase's accent grew stronger and stronger.

She saw the truth in his words, the disappointment lurking around the fury in his eyes, the distrust with which he was carrying himself, and when he walked away, responded to his pager, Cuddy was glad he was gone. She felt like she'd been pulled out of the line of fire.

The worst part, of course, was that she knew she'd deserved it.

TBC…

A/N: Feel free to reveiw.


	3. Chapter 3

"Shit," House mumbled to himself, leaning heavily against the wall for support. He wished he had a stethoscope on him. But he'd shed all his even remotely professional clothing and accessories - except the pager, of course - after getting stabbed three hours ago.

In fact, the T-shirt he was now wearing was one that had been stowed in his office. Chase had cut through the first one to get to his wound.

The small stab wound that had required twenty-six stitches, the one that he'd deflected as _just a scratch_ now had the potential to be filling his lungs with blood. The diagnostic level of his mind told him reassuringly that the chances of that were minor, and he would have already noted other symptoms that would confirm it.

Another part of him though, a much simpler, more familiar part, told him that he was in pain. And Occum's Razor told him that the simplest answer was almost always the most likely. Trouble breathing? Just got stabbed? Well, that doesn't take a genius mathematician to work out.

Still, he could just as easily pin the pain and trouble breathing on increased stress and physical exhaustion. So he did, and chucked the rest of his thoughts on that matter out the window.

Popping open his Vicodin container, he swallowed two and hoped all the extra pills he'd taken tonight wouldn't make him too loopy.

A nurse was next on his list of people to boss around. "Brenda!" He called, seeing her a few yards away. She stopped in her tracks, turned on her heel to make her way to him quickly. She might hate House - even House's team - on most days. But today was not most days, and he was pulling rank, with everyone. "I need you to contact Dr. Foreman's next of kin." He instructed when she was in front of him. "Inform him of what's going on. We may need his medical consent."

Of course House knew _he_ was Mr. Foreman, his Neurologist's father. He'd met the man once before - the last time Foreman had almost died doing his job - but now wasn't the time to get personal. In fact, he was detaching himself as much as humanly possible from this and everything else that had occurred tonight, thus far.

Brenda nodded her agreement and went off to make the call. Until the elder Foreman arrived, all medical decisions were technically Cameron's, as the proxy papers he'd issued last year were still valid. But since Cameron was currently incapacitated, all proxy privileges were handed over to his physician on record. House.

Which was exactly why he'd sent Chase to the operating room. The younger man was an Intensivist. Emphasis on _intense_. He trusted Chase to do his job and keep Foreman alive.

If, of course, that was even possible at this point.

o0oo0o

Officer Hernandez sat patiently, waiting for Dr. Cuddy to gather her bearings. He was polite enough not to mention the yelling match he - and everyone else in the hall - had overheard a few minutes ago. And when the man by her side - another doctor, he'd bet money on - led them to the couch at the end of the hall, they all sat down.

"Okay," the woman finally seemed at ease enough speak with him. "What's going on?"

He wasted no time with formalities. "Your diagnostic department has had a patient for the last week. A nine-year-old girl. Are you familiar with the case?"

"I assigned it to House." She nodded. "Inexplicable migraines. Relatively boring. I made House take it because the girl's mother - before her death three years ago - was a constant volunteer here."

_House_, Officer Hernandez thought almost fondly. He couldn't imagine what that man was like on a normal day.

"Yes, well, it seems Anna - the girl - Anna's father was physically and sexually abusing her." While he hated cases like these - he was a father of three himself - he couldn't let his personal opinions compromise his objectivity.

"God," the other man, the one in the McGill sweatshirt, hissed a low growl. Obviously he had no problems letting his disgust shine though.

"Apparently Dr. House diagnosed Anna with a type of psychosomatic illness. All her physical symptoms were brought on by the abuse. He also deduced who was causing that abuse."

"House's patient's father attacked him?" The brown-eyed man sounded appalled, but not all that shocked.

"I wish it were that simple." Hernandez sighed. "House confronted Mr. Haring about his suspicions tonight and told him that he'd be calling Child Protective Services and the police. Mr. Haring apparently took the news stoically. He was told to leave the hospital premises and everyone thought he had. Your security guards escorted him out."

This next part, at least, could justify Dr. Chase's accusations about bad security.

"He got back in." Dr. Cuddy didn't phrase it as a question.

"Yes." The policeman nodded anyway. "He went straight to his daughter's room. He had a knife and we believe it was his intent to kill her."

"Only House was in the room." The man, who was looking paler by the minute, took a guess.

"No."

The two doctors - friends, he guessed, of each other's and Dr. House, by the looks they were sharing; knowing, devastated - widened their eyes simultaneously.

"One of House's team, Dr. Cameron, was in the room." He explained. "House said she'd developed an emotional attachment to the girl."

"That sounds like Cameron," Dr. Cuddy said absently, leaning forward and covering her mouth with one of her hands.

"Haring attacked her, attempted to sexually assault her." This, as he'd predicted, got the biggest reaction out of them thus far. But he consciously chose to tune out their emotions at this point. As a cop, he was used to every reaction under the sun - he'd been doing this for twelve years - and he didn't need to read their emotions to know what they were feeling.

"The attack was bad," he went on, "But before Haring could finish what he started, Dr. Foreman came into the room. Then, some short amount of time later, I have to guess, Dr. House and Dr. Chase came in, as well. We think Dr. Foreman may have paged one of them before Haring attacked him. I can't tell you the specifics of what happened during the fight that obviously took place after that, because I don't know myself. That's why we're still here; Dr. House hasn't filled in all the details yet. He was much more concerned with taking care of his team."

"What I can tell you," he added, "Is that Dr. House was stabbed once, but he's declared himself healthy enough take charge of the entire hospital in your absence. And Dr. Foreman's in surgery right now. He was stabbed as well, but several times. He's in critical care."

The two doctors were holding hands tightly now, tears welling in and spilling out of their eyes respectively. Hernandez regretted the last bit of information he knew he had to share.

"Mr. Haring was pronounced dead several hours ago." He took a deep breath and with controlled indifference he divulged slowly, "Initial autopsy reports… indicate that his cause of death… was blunt force trauma to the head."

TBC…


	4. Chapter 4

House had never seen Cameron this pale. While it was true his Immunologist wasn't exactly known for her straight-from-the-beach tan, she certainly never looked this deathly ill.

Though, House figured, nearly getting raped and assaulted by a sociopath will do that to a person. Sitting in a chair at the side of her bed, House let his thoughts drift. It wasn't hard to see what Chase saw in her - what anyone could see in her. She was a genuinely nice, caring person.

Yes, often times she got too invested in the personal lives of her patients, and her moral code could defiantly use some reworking. There was that whole needing to fix everyone complex she had going, and her ability to stir up drama rivaled that of an eighth-grade girl's.

Still, House knew she was an intricate part of what made his team functional.

"...'ase..." the young woman in question turned her head towards him and shifted her right arm slightly. House lifted his chin from where it'd been resting on his cane to listen, choosing to say nothing. "Chase?" The word was still a whisper, but it was definitely audible.

"Nope," he answered, tone sarcastic despite the low level of his voice. "Good guess, though."

"House?" She was awake and coherent enough to identify his voice. That, at least, was a good sign.

"Present."

"Wha-" she opened her eyes, but shut them again almost immediately, groaning.

Wincing sympathetically at her pain, then for real at his own, he got up gingerly and crossed her private hospital room to switch off the overhead lights.

"See," the word came out as a hiss as he lowered himself back onto the chair, but she was far too out of it to notice. "Much cozier."

"Wha's goin' on?" She mumbled, opening her eyes again after a moment or two, but didn't try to sit up.

"What do you remember?" He inquired, slipping into his best doctor imitation, not letting any of his own emotions become readable.

There was a long pause in which, if her eyes weren't still open and fixed steadily on the ceiling, the shadows cast off from the moon outside, House would have thought she'd fallen back into unconsciousness.

"Our...our patient." She eventually answered, lowering her eyes to meet his. He nodded briefly, encouraging her to keep going. "Anna. Her...her father was abusing her. You diagnosed psychosomatic migraines and PTSD."

"Right." He kept his tone neutral.

"I went in to check on her. Her meds..." she trailed off, closing her eyes briefly, remembering. "The father came back." her eyes were wide. "He had a knife."

"Yes."

"He attacked me." Her eyes focused on his again. "He...he tried, he was going to..."

Up until this point, House had been fairly set on her recalling the events of tonight on her own. Be it because he believed it would be helpful for her, on a therapeutic level, or because he himself didn't want to speak them aloud. That was for the interpreter to decide.

Only now, with fear clearly her only overriding emotion, he stepped up and took control. "He didn't." House spoke firmly, hoping that the level calm of his tone would ease any panic attacks pushing to break free.

"Foreman came in. He attacked him, stopped him. Then…he…the guy…he attacked Foreman, there was blood." She sounded detached, caught up in remembering. "So much blood. Then I heard you. Then Chase…Chase was next me. You guys saved me."

"We distracted him." House amended. "You were already hurt pretty bad. You passed out with Chase. The ER set your arm, two breaks. Your ankle was one clean one, and you fractured your cheek bone. It'll be swollen for a while, but nothing the Wombat can't work around."

Her slight, and probably painful, smile was all he received for his dig at their relationship.

"Are you okay?" She asked, and eyed his bandaged arm critically when he nodded, but moved on. "And Foreman?"

"Foreman..." House trailed off. "Foreman's not so good."

Her desperately pleading eyes made him fold in an instant. "Multiple stab wounds. Internal bleeding. Perforated his lung and small intestine, at least. They're not sure if he'll make it through surgery. Chase is down there."

"Oh, God." Tears welled up in her eyes, and House didn't want to see any more grief.

"Look," he sighed, "You shouldn't even be awake right now. I told Chase you'd be out for another couple hours. So, I'm gonna give you a sedative-"

"No." Cameron responded at once. "No, No I wanna go see how Foreman's doing." She attempted to sit up at this point, only to be held firmly in place.

"Absolutely not." House commanded. "You're not going anywhere."

"But Foreman-"

"Is being taken care of."

"What about Anna's father?" Cameron sudden question led House to the conclusion that maybe his sole female employee wasn't doing as good as he'd suspected.

Still he answered, "He's dead."

"How-"

"In the fight, after you passed out." He dismissed her confusion. "I'm injecting the sedative now. You'll sleep for a while."

And then he did just that, relaxing a little himself with the knowledge that, for now at least, Cameron was safe.

o0oo0o

"Blunt force trauma." Wilson repeated, absorbing the words - their meaning - as he said them aloud. "With what?"

He saw Cuddy shaking her head slightly out of the corner of his eye, but did not agree with her silent refusal of acceptance - he needed to know.

"The details," the police officer sounded hesitant for the first time since sitting down with them, "Still aren't completely clear. Dr. House still needs to give his statement in full, like I said. Dr. Chase does, as well. If Dr. Foreman...well, if possible, we'll need to speak to him, too."

"Did House-"

"Wilson." Cuddy's tone was sharp, her words cutting. "_Don't_."

The Oncologist was not one for self-denial, though. He wanted all the facts. He didn't care what it cost him. Not yet.

"Did Greg House... Did he kill that guy?"

TBC…


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Okay, so personally, this is my favorite chapter thus far. I'm not entirely sure why, but I absolutely love the way it came out. It's also the last chapter I had written for this before I found it and started posting it. So any future chapters will be have to be written now. Please let me know what you think. A few of you have already guessed the outcome of this plot, and that's okay - I'm going much more for character interactions and personal contemplation than I am surprise twists. So, let me know how I'm doing. _

o0oo0o

Chapter Five

Three hours later the sun was just beginning its great climb up into the New Jersey skyline. House could make out brilliant red streaks of light radiating outside the hospital window. It was the last thing on his mind, however, as he sat with Chase in Cameron's room.

"Still touch and go," the Australian man was speaking in a monotone. "Flat-lined twice during the surgery. Once when they were stitching him up. There's still a chance of hidden perforations. He's being monitored. He was without oxygen for a grand total of almost four minutes. Likely brain damage - given his vulnerability from the biopsy last year. His heart's not looking too great either."

House nodded. He'd expected something along those lines when Chase had dragged himself into Cameron's room a few minutes ago. He didn't look devastated or defeated enough for it to be death, but certainly nothing good could be drawn from those sad eyes.

He didn't know what to say. Was truly, completely at a loss. Had it been any other patient he would have left the consoling up to Cameron or Chase. Foreman, if he had no other options.

He didn't do compassion. He simply didn't possess the ability.

"How long's he been on the respirator?"

"Since the end of the first surgery. Lungs were more damaged than they could initially tell." Chase's tone was still lacking emotion. His clothes were the same as before - blood streaked and disheveled - he'd stopped paying acute attention to that now that he'd grown used to it.

House closed his eyes. There was nothing more he could do for this particular problem. His Neurologist was being monitored closely. As a doctor, he knew that all they could do now was wait.

Sometimes being a doctor sucked balls.

"We still have to talk to the police." He decided to change the topic, not surprised when Chase didn't react - just kept staring at Cameron, holding her non-plastered hand in both of his own. "Give a full statement."

"And tell them what?" He inquired. "That you killed that guy?"

"Yeah," House sighed, not liking the answer any more than his underling. "Yeah, that's what we tell them."

"I'm not telling them that." Chase shook his head, sounding very deep into his denial.

"Look, it was self-defense. I proved that the guy was abusing his own daughter. All the police down there know that he came here tonight with the full intension of killing his nine-year-old and, apparently, anyone who got in his way." House tried logic because logic was all he had left.

"You bashed him over the head with your cane," Chase's words were still flat, adding to the surreal quality that was building up in this moment. "That's excessive force. They could charge you with Murder Two or Manslaughter."

"Well," House breathed deep. "Look who's been watching Law and Order."

"I'm serious." Chase insisted. "You could go to jail."

"I've already been to jail." House reminded.

"You could go to prison." He amended. "For years."

"Or I could get nothing." Deep exhaustion and undeniable pain kept him from deflecting and joking as much as he normally would. Never would he admit too, that maybe he was glad to have someone - anyone - to discuss this with. "Even if I do get charged, the guy was an asshole, any jury's gonna see that. I'll get probation - max."

"You have absolutely no way of actually knowing that." The fact that Chase still wouldn't look at him was beginning to border on unnerving.

"Hey," he retaliated, his hand was pressed against his abdomen tightly and he was sitting in a chair close to the door while Chase stayed by the bed. "I dated a lawyer for five years, you watch cop dramas. Who do you think has more reliable knowledge on the legal system?"

Chase was silent for a moment, he reached out a hand and brushed it lightly against the side of Cameron's damaged cheek. House wished he wouldn't do that. Watching personal moments always made him uncomfortable.

"What I'm saying," Chase lowered his hand and spoke firmly for once, in a tone that wasn't dead. "Is that only three people actually know what happened in that room tonight. And one of them may die very soon."

"You think Foreman's gonna die?" That unexpectedly pulled House's attention away from the obvious deeper meaning of his Intensivist's words.

"I think it's a possibility that's highly likely." He nodded. "Statistically." He paused again before reminding, "That also wasn't my point."

"I know what your point was." House declared. "I thought by me ignoring it you'd get the hint and drop it."

"You've never had an issue lying to cops before." Chase pointed out, referencing a time that all involved would rather forget.

"About pills that I _need._" House shook his head. "To a cop who was all but corrupt. This…this isn't the same thing."

"But everybody lies." Now he sounded different. Now, he sounded almost desperate. "Everybody lies. For different reasons. It's the only constant of human nature."

"You're quoting me." House wasn't sure what to think of that.

"I'm begging you," Chase amended, putting into words what the elder man could hear in his tone. "Lie to the cops."

House couldn't believe what he was hearing - didn't think what he was hearing could possibly be true. His fellow, his employee, was openly _pleading _with his to cover up a murder. To lie to everyone and _cover up _the fact that he had _killed _someone tonight. Murdered another human being in cold blood.

"Chase." House spoke firmly, ignoring the waves of nausea he felt cascading through his stomach, the clenching in his damaged thigh, the throbbing in his abdomen and the ache in his dislocated left shoulder. "Chase, turn around and look at me."

After only a brief hesitation, the younger doctor did as he was told. Chase's gray eyes were swimming with unshed tears, the trails from old ones illuminated in the pre-dawn light of the early morning.

In that moment, House felt filled to the brink with something, with everything; and he felt empty. He felt as if his entire life had been for nothing, and he felt as if his entire life had been leading up to this very moment.

There was no one way in which to describe the emotion of Cameron's hospital room that morning, that moment; only that it was there. It was now. Not yet a memory, too late for hope, too early for redemption.

If House were forced to put a real name to it, he'd call it purgatory. A hanging between this world and another that he'd decided long ago didn't exist.

He'd felt something similar the night he'd OD'd on the Oxycodone and watched Wilson walk away from him.

He'd felt something similar when he was a child of no more than twelve and he'd briefly and seriously considered taking his own life - standing atop a bridge over the rocky hills of western Scotland - after his father had told him to get out and stay gone for as long as it took him to not be a filthy, nasty little liar any longer - one in many, never-ceasing, battles he'd had fought with the former Marine throughout his childhood.

He'd felt something similar in college, as he'd watched his best friend of four and a half years actually take his own life. Blow his brains out all over the wall of their apartment as House tired and failed to lunge at him, tackle the gun out of his shaky, depressed, drunken hands.

He'd felt something similar right after the infarction. When he'd learned of Stacy's betrayal and felt for the first time the never-ending agony that would accompany him the rest of his days.

Yet again, he'd felt helpless and overpowered.

He didn't know what this was; only that it was never linked to good. He imagined it's what unworthy people felt the moment before death. What his victim had felt less than twenty-four hours ago, perhaps. He imagined as well, that there was a complicated higher brain function involved in this, with reactors and receptors that modern science couldn't yet identify or piece together.

He imagined a lot. He figured a lot. He found out a lot. But in these moments, that was always worthless.

"House?" Chase's tone wasn't unexpected. It broke through nothing because there was nothing to break through. This was nothing - as much as it was everything.

He started again where he had left off. Nothing had been forgotten, nothing had been put on hold. Nothing had been lost. Nothing had changed. "Chase, I want you to look at me. Really look at me, and tell me that you could live with that."

Chase's face was a mask of so many things. House wondered if he was feeling it too. If this was the first time he'd been here. Given his history, the older man doubted it. Chase was more jaded than he allowed others to see. Something deep, down in House's complex mind had even had the nerve to whisper _kindred spirit _once, in regards to this man.

It was only in this nothing, this everything, this twisting and intertwining completion, that he couldn't ignore that.

"Tell me you could live everyday knowing that I killed someone and we lied about it. Could you honestly live with it? With me? Could you keep working for me? See me every single day for another year, two years, knowing that I cracked open a guy's skull with my cane - _this _cane - and _murdered _him? Could you live with that, Chase? Would you want to?" There was nothing that could be said of his voice - House could scarcely hear himself. He was beyond this moment - he was envisioning every single outcome. The everything. The nothing.

Chase studied his employer for a long time - that is, if time hadn't taken on a slightly different roll in this moment - then he shifted his eyes to Cameron and House couldn't study his emotions any longer. Could only watch until finally his head moved again and looked out the window.

It was hard to say if the sun was up yet or not. It seemed clouds had moved in and began covering it thoroughly before it got a chance at freedom, erasing the red dawn that had been visible before.

Finally, eventually, evenly, readily, contently, devastatingly, decidedly, knowingly, hopefully, pleadingly; he spoke. "Yes, House. We could live with that."

TBC…

A/N: Again, your comments would be most welcome. Also, I decided to post this chapter today because I probably won't post another until, at the very least, the end of the weekend. This is due entirely to the seventh Harry Potter book coming out tomorrow, as that will, undoubtedly, take up the majority of my time until I'm finished with it. Cheers!


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Yo-ho! I finished the last Harry Potter book. Actually, I finished it about thirteen hours after I got it – the night it was released, a little after midnight (I just happen to work at a mall that has a bookstore that was staying open for the release. I was at work until eleven Friday night, so I figured, ya know, what the hell?) Then I had to go to back work Saturday afternoon on over thirty hours of no sleep…I started seeing things. Like, people, that weren't really there, out of the corner of my eye…it was freaky. Anywho, here's the next chapter. Enjoy!_

Chapter Six

When Mr. Foreman arrived at his son's hospital he was a mess of worry and fear. Over his son and his 'critical condition' that he'd been given no details about. Over his ailing wife, alone in their home with only a close family friend who knew too little of her condition to keep a proper watch over her. Over his own decision to come here.

His flight had been arranged by his sister-in-law who still worked at the airport, despite her advancing age. Ronda said it gave her something to do now that Eric was gone. Eric, his deceased older brother and his son's namesake.

The flight had passed quickly and in a blur. As had the cab ride from the airport to the hospital. It was now nearing seven in the morning, though you wouldn't be able to guess it from the weather outside. The sky was overcast in deep, dark gray. And Mr. Foreman, always an observant man, couldn't help but find that fitting.

"Dr. Cuddy," he called out to the woman once he was in the building's lobby. He recognized her from the last time he'd been here - an unknowing pawn in Dr. House's attempt to persuade this woman to allow him to do an autopsy on the man who'd had the same illness his son had contracted.

"Mr. Foreman," she too, obviously remembered him. He was glad for that. Wishing to waste no time.

"What's happened to my son?" He blurted. He could hear the hysteria in his own voice, noted that his hands were shaking.

He was scared. _Screw that_, he thought to himself, he was terrified.

The woman doctor let out a deep sigh and shot a glance to the man standing by her side. This man, too, Mr. Foreman vaguely recalled from his last trip here, but he couldn't put a name to him. Only remembered seeing him visiting his son and talking with Dr. House.

He'd assumed the older men were colleagues, of course, and probably friends.

"Let's go to my office," he offered quietly, eyeing the uniformed individuals mulling around the lobby. "Talk private-"

"No." Mr. Foreman interrupted. "Where's Eric? What's going on?"

"There was an assault on several members of the diagnostic department last night." Dr. Cuddy spoke suddenly, either not noticing or not caring that this other man had already opened his mouth to argue with him.

The older man focused his attention immediately on her, valuing the knowledge he was receiving.

"An assault?" He echoed, wanting desperately to understand.

"A patient's father. I can't give you details," she sent a glance to a police officer nearby and took a conscious step backwards, the other two followed suit. "But Fore- Eric was badly injured. He's been in critical care since late last night."

"What-"

"He was stabbed. Three or four times. The surgeons believe."

"Holy…" he hadn't expected that. He wasn't sure _what _exactly he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been that. That was a call he'd always anticipated from a prison-warden.

'_I'm sorry Mr. Foreman, but your son was stabbed in a brawl this afternoon…late last night by his cellmate…a guard had to restrain…'_

Never with Eric had he worried about anything so brutal, so unkind. So random. An illness contracted from a patient he'd been trying to heal - that he could live with, had almost had to live with.

But _stabbed…_

"Mr. Foreman?" One of them spoke. He wasn't sure which one. It didn't matter.

"Where's Dr. House?" He found himself wondering aloud; when he focused his vision again he was met with the sight of them exchanging a confused glance.

"Dr. House." He repeated, "He was here last time…"

"House…" the man in the wrinkled sweatshirt spoke again. "House was hurt last night, too."

He opened his mouth to speak, but Dr. Cuddy beat him to it. He realized, somewhat vaguely, that she probably did that a lot.

"Dr. House wasn't injured that seriously-"

"He got stabbed, as well." The other…

"I'm sorry," Mr. Foreman just couldn't stand it any longer, and he needed something more concrete to focus his attention on. "What's your name?"

"I'm sorry," brown eyes widened sincerely, repeating his words as he held out his right hand and shook Mr. Foreman's firmly. "My name's Dr. Wilson. I'm a friend of House's." He paused thoughtfully after lowering his arm, "And of your son."

"Right." He nodded, though wasn't sure if he fully believed that. "Now, can I see Eric?"

Dr. Cuddy sighed sadly. "I'm sorry, but he's in a clean room right now. He developed an infection about forty minutes ago, and House had him moved to isolation as a precautionary measure."

"But…but he was…he was…that's how it was last time I was here, when he had that other…" he trailed off and gestured absently with one hand, not recalling the name of the illness that had plagued his son the year before.

"But this time he's being monitored closely for any complications from the surgery done to repair his lungs and small intestine. He's on a respirator and is also being watched for heart and brain damage," Dr. Wilson said these words regretfully, attaching one of his hands to the back of his neck and rubbing nervously.

"Heart damage? Brain…" he was having a hard time piecing this all together. "From a stab wound?"

"From multiple stab wounds." Dr. Cuddy reminded. "Blood loss and surgery."

All at once, the eldest Foreman was fed up with this dialogue, their back-and-forth presentation of these facts. His son was critically injured and these doctors were doing nothing at all to alleviate his continuing doubts.

Then he recalled once again what Eric had told him in a phone call about a year after his job here had begun.

"_Dad…House is the most screwed-up, manipulative bastard I've ever met. And I've met some screwy, manipulative people, but…it's almost worth it. To watch him be that condescending, to listen to him prattle on, feed his own ego."_

"_What would make that worth it?" He'd asked at the time, enjoying talking to his son more than actually hearing about this man he'd never met. _

_Eric had laughed heartily at the question. "Because House…House is by far the best doctor I've ever worked with. He could cure anything. I'd probably trust him to cure me."_

He'd said it in jest then, to get his point across, to aid the civil conversation they were having - that wasn't about his wife or his other son.

Now, though, just as he had last year, Mr. Foreman rehashed those words in his memory and decided abruptly, "I want to talk to Dr. House."

The two exchanged another indecipherable look at one another, before turning to face him again. It was Dr. Cuddy who spoke first.

"That's not really possible, at the moment." She said slowly.

"You said he was stabbed, too." He recalled suddenly what Dr. Wilson had been saying before, when he'd cut him off. "It he alright? I mean, you said he had Eric moved to isolation."

None of this was making any sense.

"He did." Dr. Wilson spoke up. "It's not possible because…well, because we're not…I mean, we haven't talked to House since we got here, at about three this morning."

"What?" He snapped, not fully understanding how that was possible.

"He's been dealing with your son's injuries and the injuries of another doctor that works for him."

Mr. Foreman remembered the petite brunette whom Eric had handed over his medical decisions to. He remembered also, a young Australian man who had spoken kindly to him in the face of his son's impending death. He wondered if it was one of them to whom she was referring.

"The police haven't been able to get a full statement yet. We've been trying to keep the hospital in order in light of the events of last night. The press, the campus police, other patients…" She trailed off again, and Mr. Foreman was beginning to realize that he wasn't the only one here who was tired beyond all measure and close to overflowing with worry and anxiety.

"Sounds chaotic." He sympathized detachedly. "But I need to see my son."

"I know." Dr. Wilson nodded at him this time. "But I'm not sure the police will allow it. We haven't even been in there yet. We do know, however, that he's unconscious. So seeing him-"

"I don't care." He cut off yet again, impatience overriding any and all sympathy by a mile. "I need to see him."

There was really nothing else to be said amongst the three adults. A stalemate had been reached.

o0oo0o

House inclined his head slightly when Chase's pager went off. He was holding his breath, but would never admit that. When the blonde man looked up again, House released that breath.

Those eyes held not the look of informed death.

"Foreman's dad is here." He supplied without being asked. House was grateful. "Brenda saw him in the lobby talking to Cuddy and Wilson."

"Crap." He muttered. This was all happening too fast. He wasn't ready to face…he just wasn't ready.

Chase seemed to sense his feelings. Or was experiencing the same ones. "We have to go down there. Talk to them."

"No we don't." House stayed firmly planted in his hospital chair. He'd been there for so many hours; he doubted he could move now, even if that had been his wish.

"House…" but Chase trailed off. Deep down, he had even less of a desire to leave their little sanctuary than his boss did.

Cameron had woken up eventually, the sedatives having worn off somewhat. She'd shared a few quiet words with her lover - so mumbled that House, from across the room, could thankfully make out none of it - then had fallen back asleep. She'd been drifting in and out since then.

Chase had gone a few times to run various errands for the elder doctor. Check on Foreman, make the call to have him moved to isolation because of the infection, tell the police that they were still in the midst of a medical emergency and couldn't yet talk to them, refill his Vicodin prescription, have the OR on standby incase Foreman started showing even the slightest sign of worsening symptoms… and so on.

"It's ironic." He spoke, delaying what had now become inevitable. "Hospitals don't know how police work. Police don't know how doctors work. They could have checked by now and found out I was unoccupied enough to give a full statement - they just don't know who or what to ask. And we might be able to wait them out - put this whole thing off for days, even, but we don't know how long they'll stay camped out down there."

"We have to tell them." Chase looked to Cameron, who House could tell was still sleeping.

"That I-"

"Knocked Mr. Haring off of Foreman and he cracked his head on the side of the hospital nightstand." Chase cut in. "Yeah. That's what you need to tell them. Or I'll tell them. You were bleeding. He'd just stabbed Foreman again; you could tell he was in a detached mental state of rage that would more than likely lead him to murdering Foreman. You lunged at him but accidentally put your weight on your bad leg. You fell against him full-force and since he was still standing at the time, he went down hard, all your weight against him. Right into the edge of the stand. His weight plus yours was more than enough to cause a deadly blow."

It was actually surprisingly close to the truth, what Chase had just said. Close, but not close enough. Then again, close enough might get him what Detective Tritter had fought so hard for a few months prior to this incident.

Close enough might ruin his life.

"We need to go down there." He sighed. He felt like he was being unjustly thrown into the roll of adult before he was truly ready. He felt like a child again, at someone else's will.

_You'll always be a filthy, rotten, pathetic little liar. _John House had roared that night. His son had struggled for so long prove his dad wrong - to show him that he wasn't _good for nothing_. Then, when that had failed, he'd divined great pleasure out of doing things that he knew would infuriate the older man.

And when that had proven too painful, he'd finally given up on his father's moral code, deciding instead to forge his own. What was right was right. Simply and truly. What was wrong was wrong.

Except for everything that fell in-between.

"What are you going to-"

But House didn't let the nervous young man finish his question. "I don't know." He took a deep breath, bowing his head to hide the pain that it caused him.

"We can't go down there with different stories." Chase pointed out loudly, and then quieted his tone, glancing quickly at Cameron who was, thankfully, still sleeping. "You have to decide."

"I know." House kept all emotion carefully out of his voice. Though he wasn't sure why. Habit, most likely. "I know."

Truth be told, he'd known exactly what he was going to do since Chase had presented him with an option. Since he'd been pulled into that starkly contradicting pool of possibilities. He knew he only had one option. It wasn't a decision. Not really.

Now it was just a matter of getting the words out.

"Fine." He sighed, meeting Chase's eyes from across the room. "I know what I'm going to do."

TBC…


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

"You can't." Chase stood up so fast that House was momentarily surprised his chair didn't go toppling to the floor behind him. Then, hospital chairs were notoriously easy to slide along the linoleum flooring, as if they'd been designed to stay quiet in moments of extreme distress. "You can't."

"Yes," House sighed wearily. He'd been expecting opposition. "I can."

"You'll go to-"

"We've been over this." House interrupted, it seemed that they'd both forgotten their decision, made just moments before, to leave this room. "And you know I won't. They can't charge me with murder, Chase. They can't."

The Intensivist was breathing shallowly, and House had a feeling it was only the use of his name that had kept him from exploding again. Personalization, the elder doctor knew, had a way of bringing people back to the moment they were truly in, kept them tethered, for whatever reason, to sanity.

"But what if your medical license gets revoked?" He tried, still shaky but more in control of himself. "Even an attack made in self-defense on a patient-"

"He wasn't a patient."

But Chase didn't seem to, or didn't want to, take in his words. "-could lead to a hearing by the disciplinary committee."

"Chase-"

"And taking into account your history with them…" Blonde, messed hair flopped around as he shook his head. "Those aren't good odds."

"I can't lie about this." House repeated his decision. "I'm going to tell them the truth. If I don't…"

_I'll be no better than him. I'll be no better than my father._

"If you don't, what?" Chase snapped. It seemed his anger hadn't depleted entirely after all. "You won't lose your medical license and hundreds of your future patients won't die?" He laughed absently. "The guy's already dead, it's not like you turning yourself in would be any sort of justice."

_Too late for redemption. _

For some reason, his mind transported him back to a moment that had come to play some twenty years ago.

"_What…what are you doing?" House had known then that the words were pointless and stupid, but in his state of shock, he'd been able to form no others. _

"_I can't do this…" His roommate, his friend, the only family that he'd ever chosen, in a way; had let out a choked breath somewhere between a humorless laugh and a dry sob. "I can't…live anymore. I'm not going to medical school, like you, Greg. I just…can't do this."_

_House had known he'd been serious when he'd used his first name. That was something they so seldom did. _

_Slowly, never taking his eyes away from the gun in his shaking hands, House had lowered his leather jacket to the floor by the closed front door. "Are you drunk?" Was the only rational thing he'd been able to think of saying. _

_Alex had snorted again, by then House could see the tears in his eyes. "I'm finished." Was the only answer he'd received. "I'm done."_

_They'd been separated by almost the entire length of the apartment; House had known he couldn't move quickly, as that might startle his friend into firing the gun held loosely against his temple. _

"_Because you didn't get into med school?" House tried logic, because logic was all he'd ever had. "C'mon, man, there're other options. Other things to do with your life." _

"_I'm not you." Alex had shaken his head. "You can do anything. I'm just…stuck here." _

_House hadn't understood entirely what he'd meant by that, but took the sign that he was still talking as a good one. Slowly, as if approaching a frightened wild animal, he took a step closer. _

"_You're not stuck anywhere." House had said. "You can go anywhere. Do anything. What about Europe? I thought you wanted to backpack across Europe with Sam this summer."_

_Another broken sob erupted. "Me and Sam broke up a couple hours ago. She said..." But he'd shaken his head, causing the hair by the barrel of the automatic to rise up slightly. "It doesn't matter." _

"_It kinda matters." House had risked another tentive step forward. "If it's the reason you're planning on killing yourself."_

"_You don't understand, G-man." Somehow, House had found the use of that nickname oddly reassuring. Alex only ever used it when they were joking or he was trying to embarrass him in front other people, almost always of the female variety. It had been a long time since Crandall had been around his college; he'd never liked this scene all that much, had never understood why House had wanted to come back here. _

_He'd been almost smiling when Alex had steadied the gun. _

_No, House hadn't understood at all. _

"Chase, I…" But he didn't know what to say. Just as he hadn't known what to say back in that apartment, when he'd been a kid in his mid-twenties, forced to watch his best friend pull the trigger and end his life.

"It's a tiny lie." Chase pleaded, his face still held traces of anger.

"It's the difference between accidental death and murder." House snapped. No matter what the argument, it could never be debated that this would be a _tiny _anything.

"It's the difference in hundreds, maybe thousands, of people's lives." He bit back, though he seemed to understand flaw in his previous phrasing.

"I'm not the only doctor in the world." House raised his voice for the first time all night. "Medical care won't stop if I do, on some off chance, get charged with a crime or get my medical license taken away."

These were possibilities he didn't want to think of. He wasn't sure if he could survive without his job, without his mysteries and distractions. He was almost certain he wouldn't survive without his freedom – even the limited, painful freedom that his crippled leg always tainted, was more bearable than the thought of long-term imprisonment.

Domination, being overpowered, having no say in what happened in his life, to him. He'd fought these things – in various forms – throughout his whole life. His father was just the tip of the iceberg. It's why he'd hated Vogler so passionately. Why he'd gotten to the point of nearly throwing everything away in the folds of Tritter's crusade.

Of course, at that point, he'd been almost looking for a reason to throw his life away.

The shooting, and the subsequent ketamine treatment had landed him in a place where the last five years of his life hadn't happened, where he'd been unburdened by his physical restrictions. He'd been free for the first time in half a decade. It had been amazing, to be in that place, feel things that he'd forced himself, years ago, to suppress the desire for.

Of course, he'd known then that he'd only been kidding himself. To believe that he would live the rest of his life without pain had been a joke. A cruel, angry joke that he himself had brought on. He should have never asked for the ketamine in the first place. Should have never believed his mind's delusions and misrepresentations of the real world. Should have never believed that anything could take away his pain.

It was funny; he thought now, that he had murdered a guy in his hallucination too. Perhaps he was a bit of a psychic.

"You're the best Diagnostician in the country," Chase was saying. "How many cases have you solved that no one else could? People come from around the world to get your help. By turning yourself in, you're turning your back on a hundred more future patients."

"It's not that simple." House sighed. He longed to make a joke or revert back to sarcastic defenses; but he found himself unable.

Tritter had started pursuing him right after he'd come crashing down from his painless high. He'd felt, in the months that Detective Tritter had been a part of his life, much as he had back in college after Alex had died.

He hadn't wanted anything to do with the outside world any longer. He was certain, because experience told him so, that it would fail him. People were doomed to fail him.

It was only his hatred of authority figures and dominating presences that had been installed in him by his father so many years ago, that had kept him fighting back against Tritter. That, and his anger.

It was truly ironic, that it had been that predisposition that had kept him from throwing his life away. Even the night he'd swallowed all those pills and downed them with Scotch, he'd known he wouldn't die. Had known he wasn't giving up. He wasn't following Alex's example, because that was something he'd decided long ago that he'd never do.

He hadn't been sure _what_ he was doing exactly, had known only that he was desperate and running out of time.

He hadn't expected Wilson to show up that night and finally see how truly screwed up his best friend really was. He wished he hadn't been a part of that.

Just like he wished now that Chase wasn't a part of this.

"House!" Chase's abrupt shout caught the elder man's drifting attention. "Stop ignoring me." It was a demand. Perhaps the first demand he'd ever received from his Australian fellow.

He couldn't help the vague feeling of pride that rose up slightly inside him.

But he said only, "Why? There's nothing worth listening to. You're just repeating yourself."

"I-"

"I've made my decision." He cut across Chase's angry words. "I'm telling the cops the truth."

Chase looked positively livid.

"It's not the damning choice you're making it out to be." House said snidely, in response to that look, and repeated, "We've been over this."

Chase shook his head, but seemed, finally, at a loss for words. When the phone on the wall of Cameron's hospital room rang a moment later, it caused a welcome distraction for both doctors.

The phone was mounted on the wall right above where House was sitting, so he answered, leaving Chase time to catch his breath and, hopefully, deal with his boss's decision.

"What?" He answered the ringing device more snappishly than he'd actually intended. Pain and sleep deprivation getting the best of him.

"Dr. Foreman's father has arrived." Brenda's voice wasn't as snippy as it normally would have been after being greeted in such a way. It was cool and professionally detached.

House had known it would be her on the other end of the line; she was the only one out there who currently knew where he was.

"I know." He answered plainly, having received that update not ten minutes ago from Chase. He supposed, though, that she had no real way of knowing that.

"He wants to see his son." Brenda sighed, sounding older and wearier than House had ever heard her sound. "Dr. Cuddy's not permitting it."

"Why not?" House asked, only absently curious.

"I think because she doesn't know if _you'd _allow it." Brenda sounded almost as astounded to say that as House was to hear it.

"What does that have to do with anything?" He asked, and noticed that Chase was now studying him curiously.

"He's your patient." Brenda said, and then sighed. "But you'd better make a decision about this soon. He's already causing a sort of scene down here."

"And we've had enough scenes in the lobby for one night." House mumbled, mostly to Chase, who flushed a light red color and looked away.

"I'll take care of it." He abruptly ended the conversation, hanging up the phone, wincing as he stretched his arm again.

He turned immediately to Chase. "Go get Foreman's dad out of the lobby."

"Me?" Chase balked. "I can't-"

"Then get a nurse or someone to do it." House snapped, no longer in the mood to argue. "Just get him to Foreman's room."

The younger man opened his mouth to argue but his boss cut him off, "Now."

Chase glared as he walked past him, but did indeed obey the order. It was only after the door slammed shut behind him that House spoke again.

"How long have you been awake?"

Cameron's eyes opened at once, no longer under the guise of sleep, she seemed quite content to glare evenly at her boss. "A while." She answered vaguely. "What was Chase talking about?"

House sighed, yet again. It seemed he couldn't do that enough lately. "Nothing."

"Something." Cameron countered. "Something had him pleading with you."

House sensed a quiet determination in her words, a fierce longing to protect the young man that had just stomped out of this room like an angry, cheated teenager.

"And I'd say it's a pretty fair bet that whatever it is, it has something to with what happened tonight."

House rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well…" _Duh._

"Whatever it is…" Cameron looked dead into his eyes, not blinking, not flinching, simply existing to say these words, "Can you just do it?"

It took several seconds for that question to cut through all the things he'd been expecting her to say. "Come again?" He finally managed.

"Just…" she shook her head slightly, and House had to remind himself that she was still pretty out of it from the combination of painkillers and sedatives running through her bloodstream. "You know Chase looks up to you, right?"

House cringed, he hated hearing these things. He nodded curtly to her question, hoping the cocktail of drugs in her system would allow her to leave it at that.

"Whatever he's asking you to do…he said other peopled would suffer if you didn't." She tilted her head slightly. "He meant that he would suffer."

House felt a bit helpless. "Cameron…" he studied her closely, noting the redness in her eyes, he sighed, "Go back to sleep."

"House-"

"Don't make me give you another sedative." He threatened, and was only half-joking.

"I'm serious." She sounded angry now, and House had the fleeting thought that, if Chase and Cameron ever pulled it together enough to get married and have children, those kids would have a frightening amount of temper tantrums.

"You don't even know what he was talking about." House pointed out, though he had a feeling that his logic would be rather moot here.

"It doesn't matter." She insisted, just as House had expected she would. "He needs you."

"No he doesn't." He argued back, feeling nothing but extreme exasperation.

"You don't know him like I do." Cameron's head was turned towards the chair he was still seated in; House could only clearly make out half of her face in the sunless light coming through the window.

No one had bothered turning the overhead light back on after he'd switched it off so many hours ago. He had no wish to so now.

"No, I don't." House agreed, because there was no way he could argue that. "But I-"

"No." Cameron cut him off, sounding nothing but pleading. "No, you really don't understand. To him…you're the only person who's never lied to him, never turned your back on him."

House looked fed up, "No. I'm not." The very proof of that was lying in a hospital bed, pleading with him about something she didn't even fully understand.

"No," Cameron sighed, "Maybe not. But he needs you. We all do."

"Enough with the touchy-feely, emotional crap." He did his best not to raise his voice, knowing that wouldn't be good for her, but couldn't help the slight incline of his words. "This isn't an episode of Dr. Phil. You're not going to win me over with proverbs or fortune cookie platitudes."

"Who's going to take care of Foreman if you're not here?" The question was so innocent, said in such a childish way, that House couldn't bring himself to answer with logic right away. Thus, he couldn't answer at all right away.

He remembered a time, almost two years ago, when he had wished he could fall in love with this woman. He'd thought then, how easy it would be to succumb to her advances. He'd have someone in his life again. To fill the hole that Stacy had left.

Only he'd known that no one could ever fill that void. He'd known also, that allowing Cameron to try to do so would be to damage her, more so than she was already.

House didn't need someone to try to fix him; because he too, was damaged beyond repair. And he hadn't loved Cameron, could see her as nothing more than an employee. Perhaps, recent events may indicate, an employee he felt the fierce need to protect and avenge. But still, it would never be love.

And Cameron needed someone who wasn't him. Cameron needed someone who complimented her. Someone who was strong enough to take care of her, too.

Chase fit that description well enough for House. Well enough that, if asked, he would have to say that he approved of their relationship. Chase, after all, _was _quite damaged himself.

They fit together. His Immunologist and his Intensivist. Like a perfectly balanced equation.

"Foreman's in good hands." House's tone was gentle, though he'd deny that to his grave if Cameron ever told another sole about it. "Chase can oversee his medical care."

"It's not fair." Cameron's words were lazy, somewhat disconnected. House saw that her eyelids were dropping; she was drifting out of consciousness again.

"What's not fair?" He asked anyway, not really expecting an answer.

"Everybody lies." Were the last words she managed before giving into sleep entirely.

House was puzzled by her words. They didn't fit at all with what they'd been discussing, and were completely irrelevant to the point she'd been attempting to make. The simplest explanation, of course, was that the drugs caused slight disorientation. She was out of it, and saying random things.

House's presence would lead to unprompted memories, and the older doctor had to admit that Cameron, Chase and Foreman undoubtedly had a lot of those floating around their minds featuring him declaring that _everybody lies._

The slightly more disturbing explanation – she _had _heard exactly what Chase had been yelling at him about. She knew what he'd done.

Of course, that would imply that her out-of-sorts rambling had been her way of saying, "I agree with Chase."

That, House found almost too hard to believe. Cameron was the moral center of their department, their team. If anyone would want him to tell the truth, it would be her.

Then again, she'd said it, _everybody lies. _

The return of Chase to the hospital room pulled him away from these thoughts.

The blonde man didn't look at him, just crossed the room and took up the same seat he'd been in for hours. Steadily he spoke, "I got Brenda to take Mr. Foreman down to isolation. I don't think Cuddy or Wilson will put up with not talking to you for much longer, but Cuddy has been a bit preoccupied."

"He's still getting the ultrasounds every hour, right?" House had to confirm.

"Every half hour." Chase corrected, looking to House at last, as of daring him to present a challenge. "They ended his last surgery way too quickly, in my opinion."

"Well…" House felt that annoying bit of pride trickle through him again. "That's good enough reason for me."

He'd used almost those same words once before, he'd been speaking to Foreman then. And Chase accepted them now with a slight nod and an indefinable look that was gone as soon as it had come.

"House," Chase sighed a short amount of time later. He knew, again, that their time in this room would soon be up. "I want you to lie to the police."

"Why?" Out of all their arguments thus far, House had yet to ask this very simple question.

"Because…" he shifted his head to look at Cameron, as though her image might change to something different than the one he'd been studying closely for so many hours now. "Because you didn't do anything wrong tonight."

House knew that Chase didn't regret what had happened to the man who'd hurt Cameron. House couldn't say that he blamed him. He knew also, that if the younger man had had the chance – if House hadn't beaten him to it – he would have done exactly what his boss had done.

House pursued that thought mindlessly for a moment. If Chase had killed Haring, murdered him as House had murdered him, they'd be in a completely different, yet undeniably parallel, situation right now.

And House realized, somewhat unexpectedly, that if that had been the case; there would be no arguments to be had. House would have lied to the police. He wouldn't have risked – even if the risk was slight and somewhat paranoid – Chase being charged with murder, or the removal of his medical license.

He wouldn't have hesitated in telling the lie.

"And it's not worth the risk." Chase looked up again, parroting his thoughts frighteningly. His gaze, as House was almost getting used to seeing, was confident and unwavering. "You don't deserve it."

House thought of something that Wilson had once said to him, about his take on relationships. _…that you think you don't need or deserve…or whatever goes on in your rat maze of a brain._

Then he thought back farther, to the memory those words had initially brought about.

_House had known he was too late. Known it the moment he saw Alex's finger tighten around the trigger. He had ran as fast as he could, sprinted the impossibly long distance between where he was and where his best friend stood. _

_By the time he'd gotten there, the whole world had changed. The gunshot had been impossibly loud, the sound of life ending. _

_Alex had crumbled to the floor, his brain matter splattered against their wall abstractedly. House had fallen to his knees in front of him. Too much blood, blank eyes…there had been nothing left. _

It had only been in the aftermath of that tragedy, when the police had come to their – his, now – apartment to investigate, after the sheet had been thrown over Alex's body and the flashes from the Crime Scene Unit's camera's filled the room, that House had been asked; _"And who's gun is this?"_

It had seemed such an odd question at the time, such a pointless inquiry. But nevertheless, he looked up as the faceless investigator held the gun – now sealed in an evidence baggie – out for him to see.

It was only then that he'd realized the truth.

_He'd spoken slowly, barely able to hear himself. "My dad…gave me a gun when I left. He said…living alone…or with someone I didn't know…I'd need…something…I forgot about it. I had it in a lock box under my bed…I'd completely forgotten…I never even thought about…I was never gonna..."_

_Finishing a sentence had seemed impossible; all his coherent thoughts were black comedies dancing angrily throughout his fragmented and damaged soul. _

_But finally he'd latched on to enough to manage, "Yeah, that's my gun. Alex killed himself with my gun." _

"I don't deserve it, huh?" House eyed his fellow. "What makes you so sure?"

Chase met his faze squarely, yet again. "I'm sure." He took a deep breath. "And even if you do… no one else does. No one else deserves to lose you to something that could be avoided." Gray eyes deeply penetrated blue, and somehow, in his words, through that gaze; an unavoidable agreement was made. "I don't deserve it."

TBC…


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

House wasn't entirely sure what to do once he entered the busy hospital lobby. He was momentarily astounded by how many people were still there - had ever been there at all.

He'd been expecting the police, obviously. And the police had probably called Child Protective Services, who had then probably found a way to contact one of Anna's immediate relatives, assuming she had any.

If she did, it was a fair bet that they had called lawyers. Or the Child Welfare people had called their own, to aid in the transferring of custody that might have already taken place. Cuddy had probably gotten her own lawyers on stand-by. Of course, House wasn't sure what she knew. If she knew anything.

He hated being so out of the loop. He'd been hiding in Cameron's room for so long, he'd forgotten that hours had passed - and lives had inevitably been rearranged.

"I'm going to go find the guy you talked to before," Chase declared, still standing at his side as he had been since they'd gotten off the elevator. He too, sounded a bit overwhelmed. "What did you say his name was?"

"Hernandez." House answered, clearing his throat. "Officer Hernandez."

Chase nodded and walked away, House followed him with his eyes. He'd heard his little Wombat's outraged rant earlier this morning, had caught most if it when he'd come down here to try and find him - figuring, at the time, that that would be faster than the pager.

He'd never heard anyone yell at Cuddy with so much gusto. Even his own fights with his boss were mostly limited to sarcastic comments and mutual disagreements. He knew Chase had a temper hidden behind those docile, pretty-boy walls he'd constructed over the years.

He'd even seen it once before, during the first six months Chase had worked for him. They'd had a patient - a sixteen-year-old boy - who had come in with his mother. He'd been in the hospital for over a week with worsening symptoms before the father had finally shown up.

"_Huh." House had commented dryly when the man had come to his office and identified himself. "I kinda thought you were dead." _

He hadn't appreciated that comment, and started shouting his outrage in full. House had been prepared to counter-attack calmly, to ask him to leave or go see Dr. Cuddy, or something to get the man to stop shouting.

He'd almost forgotten that Chase had been in the room, too.

"_Who the hell do you think you are?" The Australian man interrupted the father, slamming his hands down on the glass table, startling the other two men. "You can't just barge in here after a week and start making demands!"_

_The man turned his narrowed eyes on the Intensivist. "Like hell I can't!" He'd shouted back. "That's my son!"_

"_Your son," Chase had seethed, standing up from his seat at the conference table, "He's been here eight days. This is the first time you've shown up! Your wife-"_

"_Ex-wife." He'd growled._

"_-called you the first night he was admitted. What was so damn important that it came before your son?!" He hadn't seemed to hear the correction at all, shouting over his words disgustedly. _

"_Chase," House had tried his best to get the younger man's attention, but to no avail. _

"_I was at a conference." The father had explained. "It's none of your damn business anyway. I want to know what's going on with my child."_

"_Bad parenting, mostly." Chase's tone had been icy and bitter. _

"_How dare you!" The father had shouted._

"_How dare _you_!" Chase had screamed back. "You're a selfish, ungrateful, pathetic bastard!"_

The fight hadn't continued much after that. The father had stormed out, leaving House and Chase alone with the echo of the slamming door.

"_Chase…" House hadn't been sure what he'd planned on saying, but was saved from having to find out. _

_His Intensivist was still trembling with fury, overpowered by outrage. House himself knew that feeling well - too well. So he hadn't tried to reach out to the younger man, just watched as Chase paced to the other side of the room, his whole demeanor was shaky. _

_When he reached one of the only spots in the entire office that had a wall that wasn't made of glass, he took a few more shallow breaths, then slammed his fist into it with enough force to create a crater in the plaster. _

House had been only mildly shocked, back then, that his anger had presented itself so dangerously. Honestly, he'd been a bit impressed that his fellow hadn't hit the father when he'd been in the room. That, House knew, had taken self-restraint.

Chase had broken two of his fingers and House had had to call a repair guy to come fix the wall in his office. He'd paid for it out-of-pocket, so he wouldn't have to tell Cuddy what had taken place.

He'd been grateful that the man Chase had released his fury on hadn't pressed charges. Guilt, he supposed, could silence a person.

After that incident, House had suggested that Chase talk to a therapist about his obvious problems.

"_You want me to go see a shrink?" Chase had balked the next day when House had called him into his office. They'd spent the majority of the night before at the hospital solving that boy's medical condition. They had cured him, but were then running on very little sleep. _

_House had never liked the overall idea of therapy himself, and would never recommend it unless he was sure it would help. Except with Chase, where he honestly hadn't been sure. "I think it might be a good idea." He'd said honestly. _

_Chase had remained silent for a long moment. His boss had studied him carefully. The first in three fellows he'd end up hiring, this man was, so far, showing surprising promise. He'd lasted four months to date. That was three and a half months longer than any other of his previous employees had managed. _

_House hadn't wanted to lose him to something that could have been avoided. _

_Finally Chase asked, "Is this…a suggestion? Or new terms for my continuing employment?"_

_House couldn't help but remember the time in his life after Alex had killed himself - the Dean at his college had threatened to throw him out unless he attended a month's worth of consecutive therapy sessions with the school shrink. Mostly, he'd said, because House's behavior on campus had become erratic and dangerous since 'the incident'. _

_House had refused, and a meeting of the College Board had been called. Eventually, they had ruled in his favor, stating that the school could not make House attend therapy against his will. But if his out-of-control behavior continued, they'd be forced to expel him with no second chances. _

_House had agreed somewhat solemnly and, after that, kept all his self-destructive, downward spirals safely out of the school's watch. _

_He had gotten over it eventually, on his own. He'd dealt with it as much as it was possible for him to deal with anything. _

_He'd known then that he could do nothing less for Chase. _

"_It's a suggestion." He'd finally answered his nervous employee's inquiry. "A strong suggestion. But I'm leaving it up to you." _

_Chase had nodded at him, and his, "Thank you." had been sincere. _

"_Chase," he'd stopped the younger man when he'd started to leave. He'd turned back around and eyed House suspiciously, all too used to people lying to him. "I can't have my doctors yelling and screaming at patients like that all the time. It'd start to make me look nice by compassion."_

_Chase had smirked, and House had hoped he'd gotten the point. Just incase he hadn't, he'd added, "Next time, it won't be a suggestion." _

But Chase had worked steadily under him for three and half years without another incident. House never knew if he actually took the suggestion he'd made to heart and sought out a therapist. He never followed up because, after that day, Chase's anger seemed to be perfectly controlled.

Sure, the older man would see it dancing around the corners of his eyes, lurking at the edges of his voice, tightly clenched in the fist at his side; but it never came out again.

Not until last night.

So when House said he knew Chase had a temper, what he really meant, was that he understood _why _Chase had a temper, and sided with him despite it.

It was how he'd known the younger man would be okay after he'd sucker-punched him during his detox, back when Tritter was still controlling everything. Chase understood what that much lack of control could do to someone so damaged already.

It was why Chase always sided with him, too.

Last night, he should have known that that anger would be building. He should have never sent Chase downstairs, into a lobby teeming with emotional triggers. But he had, and he'd been there to hear the outcome of his error.

Chase had openly and loudly defended and praised him. He could still hear the shouts, House_ is my boss! House is the one who was actually here to do something productive tonight! If it wasn't for him you wouldn't have three injured doctors, you'd have four DEAD ones!_

The older man wasn't sure about that. He wasn't sure if his own life or Chase's life had ever been in question last night. Then again, it was a possibility that couldn't simply be ruled out because it was too ugly to think about.

_At least House isn't completely oblivious to the reality of the world! You all call him jaded and untrusting! Well Guess what?! He _should _be untrusting! _

He never thought that his view on human nature would be pulled out as a positive attribute. In truth, he wished Chase had just kept his anger bottled up. Or at the very least, wished that he hadn't been around the corner listening when it had overflowed. It would be so much harder now, to treat Chase as a mediocre fellow.

"House!" The elder doctor groaned aloud at the familiar shout. He should have expected this, too. He'd known what would happen once he ventured back into the real world.

Yet again, though, his mind had been elsewhere - his internal conflicts had clouded his normally so functional instinct to protect himself. To not be thrown into any situation until he was fully, completely, prepared for whatever may come of it.

Knowing no other way to defend himself, he quickly found his mask of sarcasm and deflection.

"Jimmy," he grinned crookedly at his friend once the Oncologist was in front of him. "What's goin- are those my pants?"

Wilson halted abruptly and looked down. "Uh…yeah, I think so." He answered distractedly. "House, what happened tonight?"

"Wild kegger," he joked instinctively, knowing that it probably wouldn't last long enough. He hadn't been prepared. "Massive amounts of illegal drugs. _So _many hookers."

Wilson rubbed his neck like House had been waiting for him to do. "Really? 'Cause I heard a guy got killed."

"Funny," House grunted, humor depleting right on schedule. "Where'd you hear that?"

"A cop…" he trailed off as he looked the Diagnostician up and down, seemingly for the first time since he'd bombarded him in the hallway. "God, House, what the hell happened to you?" His voice was soft and concerned.

"Small stab wound, dislocated shoulder, probably strained my leg a little, but it's used to that." He knew this wasn't the answer his best friend was looking for, but for now, it was all he could manage.

"No, I mean…" he seemed unable to finish a sentence yet again. But that was okay, House was intelligent enough to know exactly what he was asking.

He just didn't feel like answering. Still. So he asked instead, "How long have you been here?"

"Cuddy called your place last night. I answered." He explained. "Then we got here and…it's been utter chaos."

"Yeah, I noticed that too." He muttered. Throughout his conversation with Wilson and the memories he'd been caught up in before, he had completely lost sight of Chase.

"House," Wilson looked at his solemnly. "The cops told us what happened tonight. What you did-"

"I didn't do anything." He said quickly. He wasn't sure what Wilson was referring to, and his heart started to beat faster as panic set in.

"You stopped that guy from raping Cameron and killing Foreman." He explained, looking at his friend strangely. "Or you and Chase did. Or Foreman…House…they said that you still haven't explained what happened entirely. I think, _they _think that you…"

"That I what?" He wanted to hear the words out loud again, from someone who hadn't been there. An innocent victim of unknown circumstance.

"That you killed him." Wilson finished firmly, eyes dead-locked on House's.

The older man nodded, having expected that. "Okay."

"Okay, what?" Wilson snapped.

"Okay, they might think that." He paused. "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Oh, come off it, Wilson." House said angrily, annoyed as always with conversations that went around in circles. "Do you think I killed him?"

"What kind of question is that?" He balked.

House translated his outrage; _Yes, yes I do. _

He wasn't sure if he wanted to be insulted or not. On a normal day, if one were to accuse him of the capability of murder he'd…well, actually, he'd probably start a somewhat infuriating philosophical discussion. Or turn it into a metaphor.

But today, in light of the reality of events, he wasn't sure what to think.

On some level, he knew he should be appalled with himself, should hate himself for what he'd done. But he just couldn't bring those emotions out in full.

He'd lived in countries, in places around the world, where death was so common that it barely received notice. And that wasn't simply death – just like Haring hadn't simply died- it was murder.

People murdered other people because of money they had that others didn't, the color of their skin, a comment made in jest about the foundation of the given country, about family members who had done unspeakable things.

He'd known women to get murdered for being raped and 'disgracing' their family pride. He'd known kids - kids that had been his own age; thirteen, fourteen - that had gone out and become murderers to gain pride or avenge a family member.

His father had fought a war, and House had seen side-affects of that for so many years that he'd become numb to it. Death happened; there was no way around that. The only way to survive it was to not care, to not get emotionally attached. To anything, if you could help it.

He wished he could make Jimmy understand that. He didn't regard everything with a cold, calculating manner because of his leg. He did it because if he were to live any other way, he wouldn't survive it.

He sighed then, studying his best friend sadly. James Wilson was not the callous person that House was, he couldn't put on House's mask of indifference – couldn't even pretend not to care. He couldn't see things from a strictly logical perspective. It wasn't how he was raised.

"What kind of question is that?" He repeated, and actually laughed. He wasn't sure what was funny, or if that had been a laugh of desperation, of defeat.

"House?" Jimmy sounded worried. Oh, so worried.

"It's the kind of question you shouldn't have to answer." House told him firmly.

He looked at his best friend for another moment - a brief, heartbreaking moment that Jimmy didn't deserve - then he turned and limped away.

This was his battle.

TBC…


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: At long last… House and Chase talk to the cops. Seems almost as if I've been putting this chapter off, doesn't it? Blame my muse. This chapter is written in a sort of back-and-forth manner. It was the only way I could think to do it without being repetitive, but it's something I've never done before. Let me know what you think._

Chapter Nine

"Dr. House," Officer Hernandez spoke to him almost affectionately, which put the doctor immediately ill at ease. Tritter's voice had been all too deceptive. Cops talked in lies, House knew that. "I'm glad you could finally speak with me. How's Dr. Foreman doing?"

They were seated in a secluded section of the hospital hallway. The same one that he'd paged Chase from earlier, in fact. Two chairs had been pulled out from an unoccupied patient room for his comfort.

"Not great." He answered honestly, resisting the urge to fiddle with his cane. "He developed an infection. We're not sure if he's going to make it through the next surgery."

"He needs another surgery?" Officer Hernandez seemed honestly concerned, and House thought maybe his voice wasn't a lie after all.

"Another bleed was discovered. We think the original attack may have nicked an artery." House couldn't help but sound angry as he said this. He'd told the surgeons to check for any and all sources of bleeding. Chase had pressed upon them how severe the attack had been.

Still, they had stitched up the obvious and, after the third flat line, had declared him too unstable to risk exploring any further. He'd been receiving continuing ultrasounds to check for bleeding. Yet they still hadn't caught this for hours.

"It's a small bleed," House talked, though he wasn't sure why he was explaining it to this man. "But we don't know how much damage it might have caused."

"_A _three day _blockage." He'd seethed in disgust. _

He'd vowed to never make the same mistake his doctors had made. Yet here he was, one of the most renowned medical practitioners in the country, a man whom had suffered greatly himself from a careless error; telling this police officer that one of his own employees may die because of a hidden arterial perforation.

"I'm sorry." Officer Hernandez smiled sympathetically. "Dr. Foreman seems like a good guy."

House took that as his accepted cue. "He stopped that guy from raping Cameron."

"You mean Mr. Haring?" He leaned back in his chair and opened his police issue notebook, pencil at the ready.

"Yeah," House grunted. He should have taken a Vicodin before beginning this.

"Dr. House, I need you to tell me exactly what happened last night, in Anna Haring's hospital room." It was a subtle demand, one that could not go ignored any longer.

So he took a deep breath and spoke.

Several yards away, Dr. Chase was doing the same.

o0oo0o

Officer Hernandez's partner was a tall woman with choppy blonde hair and searching green eyes. She'd identified herself as Officer Lancaster when she'd introduced herself to Chase, and wasted no time in getting started.

"We know that Haring came into Anna's hospital room approximately half an hour after he'd been escorted out."

They were at the far end of the wall in the lobby, on the same couch that Wilson and Cuddy had been on before, when Officer Hernandez had finally sat down and spelled out for them what was going on. Of course, neither of the present parties was privy to that.

"Right," Chase nodded now, wishing that he'd had more time with House before this had started. He was trying not to sound nervous.

"Dr. House told us that he'd attacked a-" she glanced briefly at her own notebook, "-Dr. Cameron?"

Chase nodded. _Attacked _seemed too docile a phrase to sum up what their patient's father had done to the woman he was in love with.

"She was on the floor, mostly unconscious when House and I came in."

o0oo0o

"And why did you go to her room?" Officer Hernandez was following the same line of questioning as his partner, on the older doctor. "You said that Anna's condition was stable. Did Dr. Foreman page you?"

House shook his head. "No, he didn't. What makes you think that he did?"

Officer Hernandez just shrugged casually. "It seems odd is all, that an entire department happened to be in the room when Haring was there."

"My department's not that big." House pointed out. "Four doctors. We're the smallest team in the building."

"But still…" His words and demeanor were casual enough, but House was perceptive, and he picked up on the hidden suspicion.

He decided to go with the truth. "Have you ever told a guy that you knew he was sexually and physically abusing his daughter?"

Officer Hernandez seemed somewhat taken aback by the question, but considered it nonetheless and nodded eventually.

"And how many times has that accusation been met with stoic acceptance and compliancy?" House had known the father would come back. Not a single part of him had doubted it. He just wished that he'd been able to accurately gauge Haring's emotional state, instead of just predict his initial actions.

"So you suspected that he might be back and went to Anna's room to…what?" Hernandez took a guess at his feelings and moved on.

o0oo0o

"I ran into House on his way back to our patient's room." Chase was busy explaining his side of the experience.

"Why was he going back there?" Lancaster inquired, leaning back into the couch slightly and studying him.

"He's her doctor." He said at once, not seeing the need to defend a doctor following up with his patient.

After all, this woman didn't know House.

"So he was just going in to in check on her?" She confirmed, only somewhat doubtfully.

"Not entirely." Chase sighed, leaning back as well, absently wishing that they were seated across from each other, instead of side-by-side. "He said that he wanted to call security. Double check that all the guards knew what Haring looked like and to not let him back in the building. He'd already called the police, but he gave them his home address, and I'm assuming you guys went there first."

"We did." She nodded.

Chase thought, that in the half hour it had taken Haring to get back to the hospital, he must have gone somewhere other than his own home. Or he had gone there, and the police hadn't followed up with House's complaint immediately. Thus leaving him free to grab the knife that had ultimately caused so much pain.

He wondered who was really at fault here.

"Is Dr. House always so suspicious?" She asked inquisitively.

Chase actually snorted. Despite the context of this moment, he couldn't help but be amused by that. "Yeah." He answered simply. "He is. It's what makes him a great doctor."

"So you didn't find his actions last night at all out of character?" She confirmed, sounding a bit more serious than Chase would have liked.

"No." He said, completely somber again. "Not at all. Look, last year… some guy came to the hospital and shot House. Pulled a gun on him in his own office and shot him twice. I saw it happen. Since then…"

o0oo0o

"Security here's not as tight as it could be." House shrugged.

"I heard Dr. Chase yelling earlier," Hernandez nodded, "About you getting shot last year."

"Yeah." The older man grunted. "Apparently some guy had a beef with me." He made and exaggerated _whoops _face that caused the officer smile slightly.

"So you had good reason to believe that, if it had been Haring's intension to come back, he could manage it easily?" He deduced from House's sarcasm.

"Yeah," he agreed, turning slightly grimmer. "It was just a hunch, but usually child abusers don't give up without a fight."

House remembered turning seventeen. He'd finally been bigger and stronger than his aging father. And as if sensing that his control was being threatened, John House had criticized and found reasons to punish his son more in those few months than he had in years previous.

Until House had finally fought back.

No, child abusers defiantly don't give up without a fight.

"But you weren't expecting physical attacks on you or members of your team?" House hoped for the sake of his own well-being that that had been a required question.

"No," he shook his head. "At worst, I was expecting him to attempt a kidnap. I'd already called the police and I was going to use the phone in Anna's room to call security. Maybe get a guard by her door. She was in a somewhat isolated part of the hospital."

"And why was Dr. Chase with you?"

House shrugged. "Coincidence. Our team generally only takes one case at a time, so it wasn't that surprising that he didn't have anything else to do."

"Alright." Hernandez scribbled down some notes and moved on. "Now, let's talk about what happened once you got to Anna's room."

o0oo0o

"We heard shouting first." Chase rubbed a hand over his chin. He had no desire to rehash any of this for anybody. Ever. But he had no choice.

"Haring, or Dr. Foreman's?" She wanted clarification, eyes downcast, locked on her notes.

"Both." Chase recalled, somewhat detachedly. "Haring was shouting. We heard him say something like, 'You can't take my daughter.' And 'She's all I have left. She's mine'"

Lancaster nodded. "Would you say he sounded emotionally unstable?"

"He sounded crazy." Chase had no problem divulging. "I've never witnessed a psychotic breakdown, personally, but if I had to guess, I'd say that's what happened."

"But you went into the room anyway?" She looked up, shooting him an honestly perplexed look. "Why didn't you just call security? Or the police?"

Chase shook his head back and forth slowly. "That's…what I was going to do. I already had my hand on my pager when House pushed past me."

o0oo0o

"I don't know," House shook his head at Hernandez's question. "I heard him shouting and ranting like he was insane, and then we heard Foreman scream. I could tell he was in pain, deduced that he'd probably just been attacked. I don't really know what I was thinking, but I knew we didn't have any time to waste."

"Okay," the officer nodded. "So you rushed by Dr. Chase and barged into the room."

House nodded.

"Then what?"

o0oo0o

"I was right behind House," Chase explained. "He went in first, but I caught up easily enough. The first thing I saw was Cameron."

God, how he never wanted to think about this again. These memories were not meant for sharing. These were ugly, horrendous memories that needed to be locked away with all his others.

Patients dying under his care in the ICU, babies born in NICU and not surviving for more than a night with their families.

His mother screaming, crying, trying to hurt herself. Hurting him, when he struggled desperately to pull the broken bottle out of her hands.

His father's biting words, whispered insults of; _you're throwing your life away. _His own weak thoughts at desperate times; _Maybe he was right. _

These were tales not meant for hearing. These were silent battles, never to be fought in anything but solitude.

"She was on the floor by the side of the bed closest to the door. She was…she was just lying there. She was conscious, but just barely. Her arm was turned wrong…at this angle…I knew it was broken badly. And she was bleeding. The side of her face…"

He found it difficult to breathe. He tried to take deep, controlled breaths, like he so often did when he was reeling in his anger. But this was so much different. This wasn't just fury at an injustice that had been done.

This was personal. And this went way beyond rage.

"Dr. Chase, are you alright?" Officer Lancaster leaned forward and narrowed her eyes confusedly.

"That bastard had tried to rape her." Chase couldn't stop himself from seething. "Her shirt was ripped under her lab coat; I could tell bruises were already forming on her belly. I…I couldn't…I couldn't _see _straight…"

"Dr. Chase," the relatively young police officer at his side sighed almost sadly. "In order for us to complete this investigation, we need to know any relative information on the parties involved."

The Australian doctor looked up, finding himself needing to blink away tears that he could have sworn hadn't been there a moment ago. "What…"

"I need to know, are you and Dr. Cameron involved in a personal relationship?"

o0oo0o

"Eh," House shrugged carelessly with his right shoulder. "They're in love with each other; does that count as a personal relationship?"

Hernandez widened his eyes, having not expected such an answer, obviously.

"And you… know this for certain?" He questioned, sounding unsure but not all together skeptical.

House blew air into his cheeks and tossed it back and forth contemplatively for a moment. "I know they've been having a sexual relationship," he started bluntly. "If that's what you're asking. For a few weeks now. I don't know the details of it, because I'm not _that _close to anyone that works for me. But you'd have to be an idiot to not pick up on the mushy, lovely, barf-worthy atmosphere around them. It's like watching Dawson's Creek, or something."

Hernandez smiled, and House congratulated himself on successfully lightening the atmosphere around them, if only for a moment.

"So, it didn't surprise you when Dr. Chase fixated on her, and not Dr. Foreman?"

House sighed. They were back on track. "Dr. Foreman was on the other side of the room." He explained, picturing the scene in his mind. It wasn't one he'd ever be likely to forget. "Haring had backed him into…"

House paused. This was where the lie would begin.

In reality, Haring had Foreman backed into the wall by the window. In the tale that he and Chase had gone over again and again…

"Dr. House?"

"Sorry." The elder man grunted, and quickly moved a hand to his bandaged stab wound. "This is just bothering me."

"Would you like to go somewhere more comfortable?" Hernandez's offer was genuine, and House almost wanted to take him up on it.

He didn't, though. Reaching instead for the pocket of his jeans, pulling out the familiar pill bottle and holding it up questioningly. "You mind?"

Tritter had made him much wearier of the combination of cops and pills.

"Not at all." Hernandez shook his head, and watched with nothing but vague sympathy as House dry-swallowed a Vicodin.

"You okay now?" Cop speak, undoubtedly, for; _keep talking, buddy_.

"Fine." He nodded, even if the painkiller hadn't kicked in yet. "Like I was saying, Haring had Foreman backed up against the side of his daughter's bed."

"And Anna wasn't awake for any of this?"

o0oo0o

"House had given her a high-dose sedative," Chase explained to a still somewhat blurry Officer Lancaster. "Right before he accused the father of abuse. He didn't want her to be awake for that, I guess."

"Is that an appropriate-"

Chase didn't even bother letting her phrase that question completely. "It's standard procedure, to give any child with a psychosomatic illness, sedatives until a psychologist can be consulted. PTSD is the mind's way of running away from reality. In severe cases, this can cause extreme physical symptoms and, sometimes, even death. When you're unconscious, there's nothing to run away from."

Lancaster nodded, accepting that answer easily enough. "So Haring had Foreman backed into the bed. And he was already bleeding?"

"Yeah," Chase nodded. "A lot. But I was still on the floor with Cameron. I didn't move until she passed out entirely. By then, House had already been stabbed."

o0oo0o

"I came up behind him and grabbed his shoulder." House relayed the details behind his injuries. "I don't know exactly what I was hoping to accomplish. I obviously couldn't overpower him." There was a certain amount of disgust in his voice.

"Because of your leg?" Hernandez guessed easily.

House nodded, and found his whole mind drifting. "I forget it's there sometimes. Or, forget that it's useless. In situations like that, when there's hardly time to breathe, let alone…I just, don't think about it."

"Okay," his tone almost gentle. It reminded House of Jimmy's, out in the hallway not five minutes before this interview had begun. "Then what?"

"He turned around and yanked my arm off him," House took a deep breath. "I felt the shoulder dislocate, could hear it pop out of place. Then I was falling backwards and when I hit the ground, all I could really feel was my leg. My leg and my shoulder. I didn't even notice I was bleeding."

o0oo0o

"Then what?" Lancaster asked steadily.

"I had just stood up." Chase shook his head back and forth absently. "It all happened so fast."

_Haring had turned back around after pushing House to the ground, he had the blade of the knife plunged into Foreman's stomach before Chase could even move his head to view the scene before him. _

"Haring was sweating and shaking. Nothing about him seemed steady or in-control." Chase had been terrified of the man in that hospital room. More terrified than he'd ever been of anyone, or anything, else in his whole life.

He'd been very certain, at the time, that he was going to die in that room.

_House moved faster than Chase had ever seen him move before. Even on his best days, there was always a certain delay in his movements, a hesitancy which lurked behind all his physical actions. _

"House got up off the ground; he used the side of the bed. He moved so fast, I barely had time to blink."

o0oo0o

"I was in pain, but it didn't register." House said this part, at least, honestly. "I saw him stab Foreman again and I knew I had to do something."

_He'd seen the cane lying on the floor next to him the moment before he stood. He wasn't close enough to the bed to use it as an aid, but in that moment, he hadn't seemed to need it. He was getting up all on his own. As if it were twenty years ago. Before middle age, the infarction, getting shot or any of the other wears and tears of life had slowed him. _

"I was up and I just…lunged at him."

_He'd grabbed the cane. Foreman had been against the wall. Haring had been standing with his back towards House. The elder doctor had known this man was out of his mind. When he'd lifted his cane a swung, all he could see was blood. _

"You, tackled him?" Hernandez made a note with his pencil, but didn't look away from House.

The Diagnostician met his eyes steadily. "I had to get him away from Foreman. But I…I put my weight on my bad leg. That's the funny thing about the human body. Your brain may be able to block out pain, but your body never forgets. My leg buckled under me and, because of the angle we were at, Haring fell backwards."

o0oo0o

"He cracked his head on the table by the side of the hospital bed." Chase finished his lie.

_The younger man hadn't been able to see House's eyes after he'd lowered his right arm, keeping his left securely tucked to his chest. After Haring toppled to the floor. He'd known the man was dead. He was a doctor, after all, and he'd seen exactly what part of the skull House's cane had made contact with. _

"So, Dr. House fell into Mr. Haring, who, in that struggle, hit his head on the edge of the nightstand?" Lancaster's tone was professional and detached. More than that, it was accepting and easy.

"Yes." Chase nodded. "I checked his pulse right after I checked on House, but I'd seen where he hit his head. I could tell it was a fatal blow."

o0oo0o

"So it was an accident?" Hernandez sounded almost relieved.

"_You killed him." Chase had looked up at him with wide, unreadable eyes. _

"_Yeah," House had agreed, voice odd to his own ears, intense pain beginning to register. "I did." The cane fell from his grip and he was falling…_

"I finally realized I was bleeding, that Foreman and Cameron needed immediate help."

o0oo0o

"House fell with Haring, landed to the right a little. I checked on him, but he ordered me to call ICU, get gurney into the room for Cameron, a crash cart for Foreman." Chase felt drained and utterly exhausted, as if by explaining the events of last night to this cop, he had relived them completely.

"It all happened so fast after that."

o0oo0o

"They came and took Foreman, to prep him for surgery. They took Cameron to set the break in her arm and ankle, patch her up as much as they could." House sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Compared to Foreman, we all got off pretty light."

"You didn't go to the ICU?" Hernandez confirmed. There was an air about his words now, a subtle change in the atmosphere.

The hard part was over.

He shook his head. "I had Chase relocate my shoulder and stitch up my stab wound. I'm already on painkillers for my leg, so I was pretty much set."

o0oo0o

"I didn't take me more than ten minutes to get House bandaged up. I didn't even suggest that he go down to ICU. I knew he'd say no." Chase actually felt relieved at telling this bit of the story.

After all, the hard part was over.

"Before he went back to his office to find another shirt, he told me to go downstairs. We needed Foreman and Cameron's medical files. I got stopped by one of our nurses, and I had to explain what was going on. The cops were already here. House called them while I was taking care of Cameron and Foreman. So, I think that was the same time Officer Hernandez was talking to House." He guessed, because he couldn't figure out another time in which that could have happened.

"Right." She nodded, confirming his speculation.

"And that was it."

o0oo0o

"The rest you know." House shrugged. "Chase yelled at Cuddy after you called her in. It took them longer than normal to prep Foreman for surgery, because of all the bleeding. He was going in right after Chase's little rant. Chase went with him. I stayed with Cameron."

Hernandez nodded absently, studying his notes. "Alright," he cleared his throat. "I'll need to talk to my partner, of course, but as far as I'm concerned, Mr. Haring's death was an accident. It'll say that in the report and no further police involvement should be necessary." He paused. "Well, if possible we'd like to get Dr. Foreman's official statement, but with what you've just told me, I can close the case without it."

They stood up and Hernandez waited for House switch his cane from his right hand to his left, still held against his chest by the sling. When it was free, he shook it. "Thank you, for your cooperation, Dr. House. I hope Dr. Foreman makes out alright."

o0oo0o

"I'm sorry for what you've suffered tonight," Officer Lancaster let go of his hand and looked at him with honest sympathy. Now that they were standing, Chase couldn't help but notice she was almost the same height as him.

"Thank you." He said sincerely, nodding absently.

o0oo0o

Then the cops were gone. And House and Chase were left alone to deal with the aftermath of what they'd just done.

TBC…


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

James Wilson never had too much to say about his best friend when asked.

"_Why do you put up with that selfish bastard?"_

He would only shrug, shake his head, tell a joke perhaps, and walk away. It would be far too complicated, the Oncologist knew, to even try to explain it. In truth, it was often far too complicated to even try to think about.

He put up with Greg House because the first time he'd met the man, he'd told him that his tie was ugly, his shirt was buttoned too high and his shoes were going to give him hell.

He'd been outraged at the blunt criticism, having never received it so openly on things so mundane as his wardrobe before.

Then, nine hours later, after his first real day as a fully trained doctor, he'd had unbuttoned his shirt at the neck – as he hadn't liked the continual feeling of being strangled – he'd received several sidelong glances that more or less confirmed that House's opinion about his tie was shared amongst the majority of the staff at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, and his shoes, were in fact, giving him hell.

"_Told you so." House had appeared in his office not ten minutes after his shift had ended. _

"_You're a jack-ass." But he'd said it with no real malice, only tired acceptance and weary agreement. _

"_Yeah," he'd shrugged, smile tugging lightly on the corner's of his mouth, eyes dancing almost playfully. "I get that a lot." _

"_Shocking." He'd said dryly._

_House had simply shrugged again. "Wanna grab a beer?"_

"_I've got a wife waiting at home." He'd said, though not as an excuse or dismissal of the offer. He'd simply been stating facts, as if to see how this man would react. _

"_Kay," House had bounced back and forth on the soles of his feet for a moment– seemingly out of simple impatience – __before__asking again, "So…you wanna grab a beer?"_

"_Yeah, why the hell not?" _

_And they'd been friends. _

Wilson didn't put up with House because the night after his first divorce was finalized, the older man had taken him out and gotten his so wasted that he couldn't see straight and could barely stand up on his own. And with every failed attempt to walk without toppling over, Wilson would just laugh.

He put up with House because when those laughs had turned to sobs, wretched cries of _"I knew this was gonna happen." _and _"What the hell is wrong with me?"_ and then those sobs had turned to violent vomiting, his friend had never left his side, never mocked his emotions. Just stayed with him – quiet, and, even in his drunken state Wilson could tell, extremely uncomfortable – a silent supporter.

He put up with House because the elder doctor had cried out in pain after the infarction, after the surgery – because he'd pleaded with him to make that pain go away and Wilson had had nothing to offer.

Perhaps he put up with House, just a little bit, out of guilt.

Mostly, though, it was because the man had an undeniable presence, a confidence, a strength, that Wilson so desperately craved. He knew that nothing could go wrong when House was there. And if something did, his best friend's intertwining, never-ceasing, ultimately amazing mind, would come up with a way to get them out of it.

He put up with House because House made him laugh. He put up with House because his friend had a knack for stirring up trouble and drama wherever he went. And that, while downright painful at times, never ceased to make Wilson feel alive.

And sometimes, he needed that, too.

He would never be able to sum that up in words, though. He was a doctor – a man of math and science, equations and formulas – and all he knew for sure was what he felt. What he remembered.

"_Why the hell do you put up with me, Jimmy?" House had been tipsy, on the verge of drunk, but not quite there. _

_He hadn't been sure if the question had been rhetorical, so he'd looked into those penetrating blue eyes for clarification._

_It hadn't been. _

"_I dunno." He shrugged. Three beers and a glass of Scotch had made him remember something, something he'd thought he'd buried long ago. "You kinda remind me of my brother." _

_He'd wished he hadn't said it as soon as the words were out. It was only a few weeks ago that he'd told House of his missing little brother, and he knew the elder man well enough to know that he'd piece it together. _

_And he hadn't wanted House to think that their friendship was based solely on him trying desperately to fill a void that had been created so long ago. _

_Because it wasn't. At least, not entirely. _

_But House had just snorted, leaning back into his couch, studying him squarely. "That's funny." He'd finally responded. _

"_Why's that?" Wilson was too relieved that he hadn't caused any damage to their relationship to fully comprehend House's next words. _

"'_Cause you remind me of someone, too." A brief smile played on his lips, and he'd looked younger. "This kid I used to live with." _

It was a complicated relationship that James Wilson had with Greg House. Complicated, overflowing with negative points, but teeming, as well, with positive ones.

House had summed it up nicely when he'd said; _"Everything sucks. Might as well find something to smile about." _

House probably would have made a great philosopher, if he hadn't delved into medicine. A great writer, a great musician. Wilson thought sometimes, that there was probably nothing that Greg House couldn't do.

Of course, that thought was an illusion. Brought on by too many years of watching House do what others –including himself - had deemed impossible.

Because Wilson knew there were many things that his best friend couldn't do.

Most notably - on that dreary morning, overcast darkly with clouds and tragedy – save Eric Foreman's life.

o0oo0o

It was nearly three hours after the police had left that they'd received the news.

Foreman hadn't made it out of surgery this time. His heart had stopped – just as it had stopped three times before – and this time, it didn't start again.

"They tried their best." Wilson didn't know whether or not to reach out to his best friend. House was sitting on the couch in his office, eyes downcast, right hand clenched tightly around the cane.

"Their best wasn't good enough, though, was it?" His words were calm enough, but Wilson knew House, and could hear how carefully controlled his breaths were, could see how tightly his jaw was clenched.

"No," Wilson sighed. "I guess it wasn't."

"Where's Chase?" He asked abruptly, yet didn't look up from the patch of carpet he was staring at. "Someone tell him yet?"

"I think Cuddy might have." Wilson answered, trying not to sound taken aback by the oddness of the question, the almost protective quality of his voice. He knew that he'd missed a lot tonight.

The fact that his normally so unflappable friend was now acting – feeling – more protective of his underling wasn't actually all that shocking. Wilson knew that Chase looked up to Greg House as a sort of stand in father figure, and he knew also – because House was brilliant and no one could deny that – that the older man knew this, as well.

It figured that only a tragedy of this magnitude would bring his true feelings out at last. Wilson would have found it in his heart to be proud of House, relieved even, that he didn't seemed to be shrinking away from these emotions – if he wasn't so damn sad himself.

"I doubt it." House snapped. "Not after what happened earlier. Cuddy'll be avoiding him. Because she knows he was right." A pause in which they both accepted the truth of that statement passed between them. "He's up in Cameron's room. I'll go tell them both."

"When?" His tone was purposely gentle, not responding to the bitterness of his words, the malice in his voice. He knew it wasn't directed at him.

"Soon." House said simply, and all was quiet for a long time. Wilson sat next to him in silence – because that was what they did.

On that rundown street corner after their homeless patient had died nearly three years ago, after Wilson had finally revealed to him the truth about his missing brother – House had sat with him for the better part of three hours. In silence, a comforting presence.

He could do no less for his best friend now. Because this was what they did.

"His dad?" It was almost an afterthought, and Wilson hadn't even known that House knew that the elder Foreman was here at all.

"Cuddy." He nodded, this time completely certain. "About twenty minutes ago. He's in the chapel, I think."

"Of course." But the words drifted away from them. Ultimately, they had no meaning.

"House…" Wilson needed to comfort, to take care of people – it was in his nature. Yet even as he decided to embark upon this path, he knew not how to start. "Do you…I mean, are you…"

"Don't even ask." House warned before he could fully begin. "You know the answer."

"Do you want to…"

"You know I don't."

"There's nothing you could have done." He finally settled on saying. "You couldn't have stopped this from happening."

House snorted, and Wilson was ashamed to realize that he felt relieved at the return of his friend's inappropriate humor – his mask of deflection. "We really need a better screening process for patients."

And Wilson laughed too; even as he felt tears welling in his eyes. Sometimes laughter was the only reaction they could handle. The only way they could deal.

Sometimes, he and House were more alike than anyone else could ever hope to realize.

"Hey," Wilson started again, some time later, after their laughter had faded away but the heavy air of grief remained. "Why don't I stay with you for a while?"

House's sharp intake of breath was accompanied by his immediate glance in his friend's direction. It was the first time they'd locked eyes since they'd come into this room. And those blue eyes, constantly bright with expression, shone now with defiance and anger.

"I don't need a fucking babysitter." He snapped, and Wilson was honestly taken aback. House did not normally speak like that. When the brilliant Diagnostician wished to get a point across, he used undefeatable logic, not harsh language. "You were gonna move out today. You can move out today."

"I don't want to go back to living in a motel room." He countered. Because that was the truth. Perhaps not the whole basis behind why he was bringing this up now, but the truth all the same.

"Moving out was your idea." House snapped again, but not quite as viciously.

"And now I want to stay with you."

"Just because Foreman…" he stopped, and Wilson knew then that he'd made the right decision.

If House couldn't say it out loud, then they were just in the beginning stages of grief – and Wilson knew his friend well enough to know what awaited him in the remainder of this battle.

"So I'll stay, alright?" A quiet comfort, a silent offer to help.

"Yeah," House finally sighed, and he sounded old, defeated and – if you really strained to hear it, knew what to listen for – sad. "I guess that's alright."

TBC…

_A/N: I probably shoulda mentioned that this is now officially a deathfic, huh? I didn't want to ruin the shock value. It wasn't my original intension to kill off Foreman, but…well, you know how it goes. Sometimes stories just don't do what you want them to do. Review? _


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

"_I've been offered a job in Czechoslovakia." Rowan Chase had spoken firmly, that solid tone his son had known so well. _

_Robert hadn't moved from where he was, leaning against the frame of the kitchen doorway, arms crossed protectively over his chest. "And you're going." He'd stolen his father's voice to say the words. Hoping they'd cut him as deeply as he was being cut right now. _

_But Rowan Chase wasn't a man who hurt easily. _

"_You know that I am." He'd responded to his son, almost as if Robert had asked a question. "You know that your mother and I-"_

_Yes, Robert had known, he hadn't needed the reminder. The fights, the yelling, the drinking, the smashing of expensive crystal on professionally painted walls, the wailing, the pleading, the crying, the desperation. No, he hadn't needed the reminder at all. _

"_Mum needs you." He'd cut across his father's seemingly simple words. He'd spoken as if none of it mattered. _

"_Your mother…" Rowan had lifted his hand, brushed away some invisible lint or dust residing on his perfectly tailored suit. "Cannot be helped." _

_Robert felt so much rage boiling inside of him. Even in his worst moments – before this – he'd never felt so utterly…appalled._

"_I hate you." He'd seethed. And he'd meant it. Would mean it for so many years to come. _

"_And I…would like you to come with me." A perfectly planned out maneuver, Robert had thought. Not unlike tricking a worried family into agreeing to an experimental treatment. _

_God, how he had hated his father. _

"_Come with you?" He'd mimicked the words, as if they might change their meaning after coming out of his lips. _

"_To Chek." He'd nodded. "Get away from here. Start a new life." _

"_My mother is here." He'd felt tears building in his eyes, a lump forming in his throat. _

_His mother had been there – passed out on her luscious, king-sized bed upstairs, totally unaware of what her son was giving up for her. _

"_Your mother is an alcoholic." Rowan had shaken his head, as if fed up with his offspring. "There is no cure for that." _

"_You're a bastard." He'd seethed, physically restraining himself from lashing out by grabbing hold of the side of the door frame. "You're a pathetic, worthless coward." _

_Rowan had taken the heated insults in stride. "And you are my son. And you're throwing your life away by staying where you are."_

"_It's my fucking life." He'd never spoken so vulgarly to his father before this. In fact, this was the most meaningful, deep conversation he'd had with his father since he'd been four-years-old. "You've never been around." He'd pointed out, breathing shallow and barely controlled. "Leave for good. We don't need you." _

_Rowan had stood up a little straighter, always the picture of professionalism, he was. "I think, in time, you'll come to see that this is a mistake."_

"_You're the goddamn mistake." He'd tossed back, and had felt very justified in doing so. _

"_I see." Though what he saw would remain a mystery to his fifteen-year-old son. This child forced so unfairly into adulthood. "Well, if you're quite certain."_

_Robert had wanted to scream at him, force him to not be stoic and cold-hearted, if only for a moment. But he'd sensed that his reprieve would be arriving shortly, and he'd so desperately needed that._

"_I've left contact information by the phone in the parlor. Your Aunt agreed to come by once a month and check up on you…and your mother." Rowan had said those words like they might offer some comfort._

_And Robert had bit back a harsh laugh. His Aunt was more of a drunk than her sister –his mum - and Robert knew that the only thing she'd ever succeed in 'checking up on' was whether or not there was enough alcohol in the house to share. _

"_Fine." He'd spit aloud. "Leave. Leave us." Leave me._

_Rowan had picked up his one last suitcase and spoke only once more before leaving his family and never looking back. "I am truly sorry, Robert." _

_The teen had waited only long enough to see the taxi pulling out of their driveway before giving into his rage, his anger, his guilt and his…sadness. _

_He'd walked jerkily over to the cupboard on the far left side of the kitchen; he'd flung open the doors and took in the sight of his mother's collection. Gin, Vodka, wine, Scotch, Bourbon, Whiskey, even a few beers. _

_Robert hadn't known what he was doing until half the bottles were shattered all over the white tiled floor. Varying colors of liquid had swum together before his blurry eyes, creating an ugly, murky puddle in the middle of the room. _

_He'd known the noise had to have been deafening, but he hadn't heard a thing over the buzzing alight in his own mind, and he hadn't been able to stop. All the bottles he could find, then some wine glasses and a few coffee mugs thrown in for good measure. _

_He'd smashed everything. Just like his father had smashed everything. Ruined it all. Ruined him. _

_He'd been crying by then. Not gentle, sullen tears - but heavy, head-pounding, gut wrenching sobs. He'd sunk down to the floor once his legs had become too unstable for him to rely on any longer. _

_His anger was still there and throbbing. Knowing no other release, he'd balled his hands into fists and brought them down hard. _

_Broken glass had torn into his skin. The sides of his hands, his wrists. Even his feet, which had been bare and undefended when all this had begun were now laced with scratches, deep cuts and sharp pain that Robert hadn't felt. He kept pounding the ground until there was nothing left. _

_Blood mixed with spilled alcohol on his previously white kitchen tiling, and all he'd been able to feel was anger. Hate. Rage. Betrayal. _

_Until eventually, he'd managed to make it to a place where he'd felt nothing at all. _

_He'd gone numb. And he was glad. _

House limped slowly into Cameron's hospital room over three hours after they'd finished talking with the police – spinning their lies and deceptions. It was now almost noon, though the world outside showed no indication of such.

Chase knew – deep down in that cold place near his heart where he kept only his most horrid experiences - the moment that House stepped foot in that room and shut the door behind him.

He knew that Eric Foreman was dead.

House was in pain, physical pain, that much was obvious. He was barely putting any weight on his right leg at all, his right hand was considerably whiter than the rest of his appendages – he was gripping the cane too tight.

The heavy sling around his left shoulder had been tightened to the point where he could barely move the arm at all. And Chase knew that every step was a struggle. A silent battle between his boss and his pain.

"I should have been there." Chase spoke before House got the chance. Cameron was sleeping – he'd given her another, milder, sedative a while ago. She didn't need to be awake for any of this.

"What?" House's face crinkled up in confusion, he was still standing in front of the door. Chase wished he would sit down.

"Foreman." He said simply. And, much to his shock, he didn't feel anger welling up inside. He didn't feel the need to scream or punch a wall and break his fingers or smash fifty glass bottles and let himself get cut up – he didn't feel the need to hurt. Himself or anyone else.

He would say that he felt nothing at all, only that would be a lie. He felt, he could feel. He just didn't know how to describe it. Describe this. So he didn't try.

"Foreman's dead." He looked up, into House's crystal clear blue eyes. Those eyes were the first thing the younger man had ever noticed about his employer – even before the cane and the gait, though those were hard to miss and followed as a close second. But he had taken in first that House's eyes always held something. Emotion or purposeful ambiguity. They were never blank. Not like his father's. "Isn't he?"

"Yeah." House made short work of explaining what had gone wrong during the surgery.

"I should have been there." He repeated his earlier words, knowing they would carry more meaning now.

"You couldn't have saved him." House spoke almost softly.

Chase tried not to compare House's voice to Rowan's. He knew it would gain him nothing.

"But we're _supposed _to save people." He still couldn't identify his own emotions, but it was clear by his tone that he was pleading again. "It's what we do."

"We solve puzzles. We fix what's wrong when no one else can." Chase noted the plural pronouns, and something great leaped to life in his chest for a moment. "We don't facilitate miracles."

Chase could figure this one out for himself. There was no God.

"Has someone told his father yet?" He remembered the elder Foreman fondly. Thinking that, even if he hadn't been able to say it at the time, last year, he truly loved his son. _Had _truly loved his son.

Past tense only, from now on.

Pity slowly became identifiable.

"Cuddy." House nodded, and Chase felt no need to examine where this information had come from. He trusted his boss, and he could leave it at that. "He's in the chapel, I think."

"Someone should be with him." Chase pointed out. Grief was a lonely emotion, which could overwhelm you sometimes if you didn't have the right company.

House said nothing, just stared at him, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

"What?" Chase finally asked.

"Taking care of his father now won't bring him back." House pointed out, and the way he was speaking, the way he was now standing, it looked almost as if he was lost – in a sea of grown-up things he didn't yet want to understand.

That impression was gone as quickly as it had come, however, and Chase thought for sure he must have imagined it. House, he doubted, had ever been lost. In any sense of the word.

"I know." Chase leveled his gaze and met his eyes squarely. He didn't feel like just an employee any longer. "But someone should still be with him." He looked at Cameron, then back to the Diagnostician. "I'll go down there."

When he started to move, House snapped. "_Don't_."

Chase raised his eyebrows but sat back down in the chair that had by now, undoubtedly, reformed to perfectly fit his behind. "Why?"

"You need to stay here." He jerked his head toward Cameron. "You gave her another sedative?"

Chase mumbled the name of the milder medication he had injected less than an hour ago.

House nodded appreciatively. "She'll be awake soon. She'll…need you." The words seemed to hurt House coming out.

Chase wanted to know why that was, but, yet again, when he looked at the older man, what he thought he'd seen and heard was gone. And House was House. Strong and certain. Their protector.

"Okay." He mumbled, and hadn't known that he was going to agree until he already had. "What about you?"

"You were right."

The phantom words ghosted over them, and both men almost smiled. Because for a fleeting moment, this was only another passing memory. A case that had no ultimate meaning. Foreman wasn't dead; he was just in the Diagnostic Office, trying to convince one of them that the answer behind their latest patent's symptoms was indeed Lupus.

Then it was gone. And they were stuck, forever more, with reality.

"Someone should go talk to…Rodney." House said the last word uncertainly, and Chase could only guess that that was Foreman's father's first name.

"Yeah." The younger man sighed, "You should."

House waited a few minutes before actually leaving the room. His gaze drifting from Chase, to Cameron, to the walls and then the window with no identifiable pattern. He didn't want to leave, Chase realized.

He wanted to stay and…protect them. Perhaps, maybe even, protect him. From something that there could be no protecting against. Grief and loss had no counterattacks. The only way to get rid of them was to feel them. Fully and without restraint. Even then, they never really went away. They would haunt you forever. The pain of what happened tonight would stay with Chase, Cameron and House until the days they died.

And that, Chase realized with a start, was what House was trying to protect him from.

It was a hopeless mission, one that even House would never be able to complete. But the mere fact that he wanted to – even without saying – carried more meaning than it was possible for him to fully comprehend in that moment.

He did, however, finally put a finger on exactly what it was he was feeling - beneath the loss, the guilt and the emptiness.

For the first time since his father had walked out on him and his mother - left him with that ruined kitchen floor and a shattered heart - all those years ago…Robert Chase felt safe.

TBC…

_A/N: Questions? Comments? Concerns?_


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

He met no one on his way to the chapel. He didn't see Wilson, Cuddy, Nurse Brenda, or any other hospital employee lingering about. Perhaps, House thought, they were hiding.

From him or from tragedy – it was always hard to tell.

He walked in without preamble and spotted Rodney at once. He was sitting almost exactly where he had been a year ago. Staring at the front of this little room, as if it held all the answers he might be searching for.

In his youth, House had found Chapels like this and churches of every variety just shy of downright frightening. The lack of light, the way the tall statues of suffering Saints cast long shadows over the pews.

He'd always preferred the outdoors.

He sat down a respectful distance from Rodney, but still next to him. The older man didn't glance up.

House spoke first. "I'm sorry, for your loss." Because he was professionally trained in the art of _what you were supposed to say_.

Rodney glanced at him. "I know." But he said no more.

Silence stretched between them for a long time. Silence in places of worship – the atheistic doctor always felt as if he was doing something wrong when it arose. Like…he'd forgotten to make a phone call, or something.

"It's better this way." House didn't know what prompted him to say this and he wished, the moment Rodney's eyes met his, ablaze with anger, that he hadn't.

"What?" His tone was deep and seething. No, House did not do condolence well at all.

Yet, now that he had started, "If Foreman had lived," he took a deep breath, "There would have been brain damage. Irreversible, severe brain damage. I'm not sure he would have _wanted_ to live, if he hadn't been able to continue doing his job."

That was, if he hadn't turned into a complete vegetable. This was preferable, too, to forcing on this weathered old man the responsibility of pulling the plug on his son.

"You…" he seemed so angry, ready to launch himself at House and bring him down just as the Diagnostician had brought down Haring so many hours ago. Then, all at once, he deflated. Practically curled into himself as the weight of what had happened finally hit. "You're right." It was a breath, all but a whisper in the empty chapel, carrying over them both. "You're right."

House could think of nothing else to say or do to comfort this man. So he said the only thing he could think of, the thing he so seldom offered as an option. "There's a counselor on the third floor." He swallowed thickly, using his right hand to play with the sling around his left arm, his cane balanced between his knees. "Maybe you should go see her."

"You think a shrink's gonna help?" He laughed bitterly at the suggestion, just as House had expected.

"I don't know." Only twice had he offered this as solution to someone who wasn't a patient, and twice he'd come up with the same answer when asked if he truly thought it might be beneficial. "I…just think about it."

Rodney – House could not call him by his surname in his mind or aloud – simply nodded. The doctor took this as his cue to leave. This broken man, this father, wanted to grieve in silence.

So he let him. House left the chapel, mahogany doors swinging shut behind him, and didn't look back.

o0oo0o

The rain pelted down around him, over him, through him. It wasn't a steady drizzle by any means; the sky that had been overshadowed by darkness since sunrise had finally opened up and let loose all that it'd been holding in.

The rain made him feel. He was wet. He was cold. He was in pain. And he was alive. Foreman was dead – his body rotting on a metal slab in the basement morgue, all because of a few fatally placed careless errors – but he was alive.

His clothes hung heavy on his frame, the cane was slippery in his hand, his sling would defiantly need replacing, his stitches weren't supposed to get wet…but he was still alive.

He recalled the first time he had ever done this.

"_You're being a miserable little bastard." Alex had finally snapped at him, standing between him and the television._

_House had only grunted and tried to rotate his head to see around the other boy's lanky, muscular body. The body of a swimmer. And Alex had been the best damn swimmer House had ever had the pleasure of racing through the ocean. Alex had won that competition, but only – and House would stay forever steady on this front – because he'd been pulled into a slight undercurrent. _

"_So…" Alex hadn't moved and had pretended not to hear his friend's grunt, or notice his icy glare. "I'm guessing that trip up to see your folks didn't go quite as planned?"_

_House had snorted. "Nope." He'd tried to say it casually, but even he'd been able to hear the bitterness in his tone. "Went exactly as planned. Fights, screaming. My mom crying. Threw a couple good punches, though." _

"_Your family is screwed up, man." Alex's tone had been just bordering on sympathetic – but with enough dark humor mixed in for House to grace him with a curt nod. _

"_He's a Marine vet." He'd said as if that had explained it all. And to him, it had. And always would. _

"_So, what?" Alex had tossed the words out casually, sitting down in front of House on the coffee table. The sullen boy could now see the TV again, but chose to look at his friend instead. "You just gonna mope around here until your dad stops being a pathetic asshole?"_

_House had grunted. Again. "I'd be here forever."_

"_Exactly." Alex had jumped up. He'd always been so full of energy. "Can't get through pre-med physically attached to the couch like some premenstrual chick." _

"_Bite me." House had muttered. _

"_I'm sorry," there had been no such emotion in his tone. "Should I go get you some bon-bons? Maybe some tampons?"_

"_Leave it, Landers." He'd growled. _

_Alex had only reached out with lightening quick precision and stolen the remote away from where it'd been resting on House's lap, before jumping away again, standing by the side if the table. "Whatchya gonna do now, dude? Change the channel with the power of your mind?"_

_House had felt a fleeting wave of anger pass over him, and as easy as it would have been to ignore, he hadn't. Just latched onto it possessively. _

"_What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He'd snapped, sitting up for probably the first time in over twelve hours. _

_Instead of responding, Alex had just studied the remote with faux-interest. "Hey, I wonder what channel Lifetime plays on here." He's looked back to his friend. "I bet you know, huh, Gregums?" _

_And House had snapped. He'd bolted off the couch with the full intension of tackling his best friend to the floor and beating him into a bloody pulp. But Alex, having obviously expected that reaction, darted away with ease. _

"_I'm gonna fucking kill you." He'd all but roared in anger. _

"_Have to catch me first." Alex had moved quickly when his friend had made yet another attempt to swipe at his shirt. "And we all know you have a history of losing to me." _

_The reminder of their past competitions in a wide variety of sports had only spurred on his anger, and House hadn't thought twice about chasing Alex out the front door when he ran out of the apartment. _

_He hadn't noticed – and wouldn't, until much later – that Alex had tossed the remote to the floor before he'd sprinted outside. _

_It had been raining, but House couldn't have cared less. He was boiling over with rage. He ran, dimly following his best friend's retreating figure into the darkness, but could scarcely see him. In his mind, he'd been running away from his father. _

_From all the taunts, insults and reminders of pain that going to see him the week before had caused. _

_He ran faster, his bare feet pounding away on the cement, the dirty T-shirt he'd been wearing stuck now to his chest, which was rising and falling rapidly. _

_The more he ran, the better- the lighter- he'd felt. His lungs burned, a stitch had formed in his side, his palms ached from where he was digging his fingers into them, he'd been pumping his arms quickly, keeping in-tune with his sprinting – but he could feel. _

_After a few blocks of this mindless race – with himself, more so than with Alex – he'd dimly noticed his friend dart past an open gate. House had followed, because that was what he'd grown used to doing. Not following Alex, but trusting him. _

_He'd never been able to follow someone he didn't trust. _

_Alex had led them into a park. Through the parking lot- absent of any cars at that late hour- and past a set of swings, House had followed his friend. Eventually they were in the middle of quite a large stretch of grass. _

_If he'd been thinking straight, he might have assumed that the open space was used as a soccer field, or some other makeshift sports arena for kids – but he hadn't been thinking straight. _

_It had been his goal, at the beginning of this, to tackle Alex, take out his anger on his roommate, his friend. But as their paces slowed – from a sprint to a run, a run to a jog, and then a jog to a steady trot –he'd found that not only had he no desire to do that anymore, he had no anger left to let out. _

_Simultaneously, the two not-quite-men but defiantly-not-boys-anymore, had collapsed beside each other in what seemed to be the dead center of that grassy field. _

_Each out of breath and utterly worn, they had spread out on their backs, heads near one another's, but not touching. _

_It had taken a long time for House to get his wind back, and once he had, he'd had only one thing to say; "You're out of your goddamn mind, Landers." _

"_Maybe." Alex had still been taking deep breaths. It hadn't taken House long to figure out why. He wasn't exhaling in exhaustion; he was inhaling, deeply, the outside world. _

"_You ass." House had spoken again. "It's raining." _

_Alex had laughed heartily, from deep within his chest. "You just figure that out, man?" _

_Then House had been laughing too. He'd felt rain in his mouth, pelting down across his face, through his already soaking wet clothes. The grass sopping under his palms when he'd laid them flat by his side. _

_Then he too, breathed deep. And he'd fallen in love with that smell. Whatever it had been; rain, grass, summer nights, the utter exhaustion of emotional release. His best friend. _

"_Hey, Alex?" He'd spoken quietly some time later. Neither boy had been in a hurry to leave. They agreed silently; they'd move again only when the rain stopped. _

"_Yeah?" He'd spoken calmly, as if he'd been expecting the use of his first name; the serious question. _

"_Why'd you do that?" _

_Alex had paused for a moment, and if House had been looking, he'd have seen a bittersweet expression ghost across his face, before he heard the answer. _

"_Because sometimes…sometimes you have to do something to remind yourself that you're alive." _

House looked up to the sky now and, had he been a different person – perhaps one not so bitter and damaged – he might have been tempted to say something like, _"What the hell am I supposed to do now, Alex?" _

But he wasn't that person, and he couldn't speak those words, so he just closed his eyes and let the rain remind him that he was indeed still alive.

TBC…

_A/N: Remember, reviews are love._


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Okay… so I am now - unofficially- done writing this story. I still have some slight editing to undertake, but for the most part - I'm done. This story will run a total of Twenty chapters. And I want to get the whole thing posted before the 16th of August. Because I'm moving on that day and probably won't have the time to post or write for a while. Please, don't let any of that keep you from reviewing, because I still love to hear from all of you! This is the fastest I've ever written a story this long…really. It took me 11 months to finish a 16 chapter one once…Anyway, I'll be posting a chapter everyday, or every other day until its all done. I also have one more House Oneshot that I'm gonna be posting in the next few days or whenever this one's done…so look out for that. Okay, this has been long. Sorry I babble. Go ahead and read. (don't forget the reviewing part!)_

Chapter Thirteen

"It's been over two hours." Cuddy sighed, crossing her arms over her torso protectively. She'd eventually changed into a more professional button-down shirt that she'd had stored in her office, but the jeans remained.

Wilson, who hadn't seen a single patient all day, still sported his McGill sweatshirt and House's jeans. "I know." The Oncologist sighed. "But I don't think he's ready to leave yet."

Cuddy looked at him sadly from behind her desk. She always seemed so professional, so in-control, sitting behind the desk in her office – it was almost hard to notice the failure that accompanied her gaze. "God." She took a deep breath, hands waving in the air before her. "He's always so eager to get out of here."

"I know." The ironic humor could not be lost – not with them.

"How did this happen?" She all but breathed.

Wilson felt something solid and uncomfortable tighten in his throat. "It was an accident."

"An accident?" She repeated and gave a hollow laugh. "An accident…that I caused."

"How did you cause this?" Wilson asked gently, almost relieved to have someone to comfort. "You didn't stab House. You _didn't _kill Foreman."

"I may as well have." She barked angrily. "Chase was right. I knew House got shot last year. I oversaw his treatment for god's sake! But that man still got back in here."

"Cuddy-"

"He tore my hospital apart." She bit across his useless words. "He killed one of my doctor's! I've got a grieving father, an injured Immunologist and…"

"Cuddy?" The word was very different this time, but Wilson couldn't help but wonder if she heard it at all. Her eyes were downcast to her desk, her head hung low.

"I could have gotten House killed." It was a whisper, almost a plea. "I…could have lost him. As it is, he's probably going to hate me forever."

"That's not-"

"I got one of his employee's murdered, Wilson!" Her head snapped up and the Oncologist noted that her eyes were bloodshot. From tears or fatigue, he doubted it really mattered.

"No you didn't." His words were soft, but matched her's in intensity. "You did not kill Foreman. You didn't hurt Cameron. And you _did not _do anything to House."

She opened her mouth to argue him, but this time, it was Wilson interrupting.

"What happened last night was a tragedy. And we're all going to be dealing with it for a long time. And yes, maybe Chase was right about a few of the things that he…said…earlier. But he _wasn't _right about you being a bad administrator. And you know that."

"Still," she'd deflated somewhat, and Wilson could see the beginnings of acceptance cloud her gaze. "I should have checked up on him last night. I _knew _he was still here. He was working the case that _I _made him take. I should have-"

"And _I _called him at eleven last night and there was no answer. I should have guessed that something was up." Wilson interjected. He knew he wasn't completely blameless here, and it was time that she knew it too. "I just figured he was busy with a case. We'd had a fight the night before – a little argument, really."

Cuddy snorted. She knew there was no such thing as a _little_ anything with House.

"I didn't care." Wilson plowed on. "I was going to move out today, and I just…didn't care."

At this, Cuddy's head snapped up, her green eyes boring holes into his. "You can't leave him now." She shook her head quickly back and forth. "Not after this. My God, Wilson, if you leave he's going to self-destruct. He might-"

"I know." Wilson interrupted her near-frantic crusade. "I know what's at risk. I already told him I'd be staying with him for a while, and he agreed to it."

She took a deep breath. "That's something, I guess."

"Right now, I think it's a lot." He corrected, not sure if he believed it but knowing that he wanted her to.

She sighed again, after a long stretch of silence, and said, "This is the first time since I became Dean that a doctor's died in this hospital." She laughed unpleasantly. "It's the first time in fifty years that one's been _murdered_ here."

"The press is gonna be all over us." He said, with no real emotion in his voice.

"I already have…" she chuckled painfully. "Security, on it. God, _now_ I take the correct security measures."

"This isn't your fault." He repeated. It stopped mattering a long time ago if he really believed that. But if he didn't at least act like he did, then the finger of blame could be pointed just as easily at him.

After all, he'd been included in Chase's raging outburst.

"Maybe." She nodded.

But it really didn't matter what either of them said, preached or argued. In the end, they'd both walk away feeling guilty.

o0oo0o

"You're all wet." Cameron was sitting up in bed when he walked in, Chase was perched on the side of the mattress as well, and was eyeing him wearily.

"Wow. Good to know your powers of observations got by unscathed." House slowly, with great ease, lowered himself into the chair that he might as well begin calling his own.

He didn't know exactly what had prompted him to come back to Cameron's hospital room. He could have gone to Jimmy, or sat in his office alone, or even gone down to the morgue, to silently wallow in his guilt. But he'd come here.

His snark had flown over the other two doctor's heads. "Were you outside?" Chase inquired in that deep accent of his.

"No," House rolled his eyes. "I took a swim in the fountain. Of course I was outside."

"Why?" Cameron asked, sounding normal enough to House's ears. The older doctor wasn't that worried about her anymore – at least, not like he had been – she had Chase now

He opened his mouth to say something sarcastic or witty, but closed it again before he got the words out. They deserved more than that, by now. Of course, he could think of nothing real to say, so he just shrugged. Wincing in pain as he did so.

"Your shoulder hurt?" Chase asked at once, leaning up slightly, as if getting ready to jump off the bed.

"It got dislocated then relocated in the span of twenty minutes." House snapped. "Yeah. It hurts."

"If you checked yourself in, you could get a morphine drip." Cameron spoke up. House eyed her for a moment. She seemed very lucid, and entirely caught up with what was going on.

Her eyes were red and the older doctor could see the faint remnants of tear tracks on her pale skin. He looked at Chase, hoping the question would be visible in his eyes – but his Australian fellow was looking at him with worry and a bit of fear – nothing more.

"I'm fine." He answered their concerns, knowing he'd get nothing done until that much was out of the way. "I've got my Vicodin."

"Your leg's been stressed, your shoulder's gonna be in that sling for a least a month and you got _stabbed._" Chase listed, as if they'd needed the reminder. "You should get on something stronger for a while."

"I'm fine."

Cameron spoke up, "Chase is right, that much pain-"

"I'm. Fine." He interrupted her, speaking deliberately slowly.

"Just-"

"Would you two knock it off already?" He bit. "Chase, can I talk to you in the hall for a minute?"

Because he wanted to get away from these questions, their concerns. He wanted to dictate the conversation – wanted to latch on to whatever control he had left.

The Intensivist looked at him strangely for a moment, but nodded eventually. House busied himself with standing and walking out the door while Chase said a private goodbye to Cameron.

He wasted no time once they were both out in the hallway together. The blinds to Cameron's room had been shut since she'd been brought in and the rest of the hallway was more or less abandoned.

"How is she?" House asked, though that hadn't been what he'd intended to say.

Chase's eyes widened, but he quickly adapted an understanding look, and stuck his hands in the pockets of his pants. "She's going to be fine, physically."

"And what about…" he didn't want to ask, _"And how she's handling having almost been raped? _But hoped that Chase understood what he wanted to know.

It seemed he did. "We've been talking." He leaned back slightly on the soles of his feet. "She agreed to go to therapy. For a little while, at least."

House almost wanted to smile. At least he hadn't offered this time. "That's good."

Chase bit his lip, looking nervous, and cast his eyes to the floor before speaking again. "I'm going too."

House looked at him curiously and, as if sensing the gaze, Chase continued, "You were right, you know. What was it? Three and a half years ago? You told me to go see someone then, but I never did."

House nodded. That question was answered, at least.

"I don't want to get so angry about this that I…that I can't do my job anymore." He looked up then, eyes locked with House's. It took the older man a moment, but he saw that his gaze was sparkling with fear and silent pleas.

"You still have a job." House assured. "Of course you still have a job. And I'm not going to fire you if there's an angry outburst or two."

Chase's face relaxed. "Than-"

"But I do want you to take some time off." He interrupted, looking down at Chase unblinkingly, hoping to get across that this was in no way a suggestion. "As long as Cameron needs off, you take it too."

At first his gray eyes held defiance, but quickly – so quickly that House thought the defiance might have been an instinct more than anything else – it melted into a look of gratitude.

"Okay." He nodded. "Thank-"

"Does Cameron know?" House cut off again, this time remembering what he'd been going to ask originally.

"What?" The blonde shook his head, looking startled at the abrupt change in topic.

"What really happened to Haring?" He said easily. "Does she know?"

It dawned on both of them that neither had mentioned Foreman at all – out here or back in the hospital room. But that was alright, as far as these two doctors were concerned. Wounds needed to heal, not to be poked and prodded unnecessarily.

This, as far as House was concerned, was necessary.

"No." Chase shook her head. "I didn't tell her."

House nodded, but said nothing more.

"Aren't you going to tell me stay quiet?" Chase questioned, looking at House unsurely.

"No." The Diagnostician shook his head carelessly, voice casual. "Tell her if you want to tell her."

"Why?" Chase balked, reeling back slightly.

"Or don't tell her." House shrugged, and felt his still damp shirt pulling at his right shoulder. "I don't care."

"Are you going to tell anyone? Wilson?" He asked in lieu of saying anything more on his personal decision.

"I don't know." And suddenly House was tired. "I'm gonna go now."

Chase opened his mouth to protest, but couldn't find words fast enough.

"I take it you'll be staying here for the rest of the day?" House inquired, nodding his head towards the closed door of Cameron's hospital room.

Chase just nodded.

"Right." House looked at him and almost smiled. "I'll have a cot sent up."

"Okay…" Chase's word trailed off as the older doctor turned and started walking.

"House," he called after only a moment.

He stopped but didn't turn. Chase was going to ask, _"Are you alright?" _but even as he began to open his mouth, he realized how pointless a question that was. He already knew the answer.

So he just crossed his arms and called out again, "Never mind." And watched with pain as House kept walking.

o0oo0o

"House," Jimmy approached him wearily, more than a little strain in his voice. "C'mon."

The words were nothing short of a demand, but still House didn't move. "C'mon, where?" He inquired instead.

"You've been up for almost two days straight," he sighed and smiled a smile that held no lightness, no hope. "You need to go home."

It was an odd thought. Going home. He hadn't been home for a long time.

"Send a cot up to Cameron's room." He said steadily, not noting, not caring, that his eyes had become bleary. Wanted, even in the short time that he'd been sitting, to lull him into sleep. What a reprieve sleep would be. No death or wrong decisions existed in sleep.

Only that wasn't true. Nightmares held the promise of replayed scenes, twisted and contorted to fit his subconscious delusions. Yet he knew that now _would_ be the best time to sleep freely. With this much exhaustion built up, his mind would simply be too occupied to torture him.

It was how he'd managed after Alex, after the infarction, after the shooting, after Stacy had left…all the truly bad times in his life were marked by this pattern. He would stay up for as long as he could – thirty hours, forty hours, two days, two days and eighteen hours – until it became dangerous or impossible to put off rest any longer. His sleep would be blissfully empty of cruel reminders.

Then he'd do it again. And again. Until he could move on. Until he could forget. Until he could store it away with everything else. Until he could remember how to live with the new weight of whatever was burdening him pressing down against him.

And he could move on, he could store it away, and he could remember how to live.

But he never did manage to forget.

TBC…


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: This chapter is a bit of an interlude. Nothing really relative to the plot-line happens here, it focuses almost solely on House's pain – which I know a lot of you wanted to see more of. House's pain, and House's friendship with Wilson – which I thought was being unjustifiably ignored. So, let me know what you think. _

Chapter Fourteen

As he cracked his eyes open, the first thing he became aware of was the pain. This was not the pain that normally greeted him upon waking. This was not the dull throbbing of his damaged leg; this was the intense shooting pain of multiple injuries.

And House couldn't move – could barely even see straight. His leg did hurt, but so much more noticeably than normal. It was the pain that accompanied his breakthrough pain cycles, it was the pain he'd had after Stacy left him the second time.

His shoulder felt as though it'd been run over by a truck. A massive eighteen-wheeler that had smashed the body part and left only tire tracks in its wake.

And the stab wound. So small and seemingly innocent when he'd first acquired it, could no longer go ignored.

He heard a deep moan, and it took him several painful seconds to realize it had come from him. Then he coughed, throat burning, eyes watering.

He wanted it to stop. He wanted this pain to leave him. And if death was the only way for that to come about, then so be it. He would die. He would willingly die if only this pain would subside.

He thought emptily of the time after the surgery on his leg. He'd been in pain then, as well. But it either hadn't been this bad, or time had dulled the memory.

He knew it couldn't have been worse than this, though. Because that had been a targeted pain, a specific injury.

This was everywhere. And it was spreading.

He made another noise, only realizing that it had come from his vocal chords because, even with the pain, he had logic. Logic informed him of his instinctual grunts of agony.

Logic also told him that there was no reprieve. There was nothing he could do to quell this; there was no one there to aid him, to bring relief.

Only there was.

His logic had forgotten something vitally important.

"Jimmy…" his word was but a whisper as the Oncologist became visible in his swimming vision.

"House," the man had knelt down at his bedside and placed a palm on his forehead. "You're hot."

"I know," he gasped, joking even now. "That's what all…the hookers tell me."

"You pay them to say that." Jimmy kept talking, and a bit of the pain – only a bit, mind you – seemed to dissipate in light of this new distraction.

"I pay them…" he gasped once, sucking in air, still unable to move. "For…other things…"

"Yeah, I know." Jimmy's hand moved away, and House almost whined at its loss, far too out of it to care about seeming weak.

"I'm gonna be right back, okay?"

"…kay…" He tried to remember that Wilson was not his father, he wasn't Alex, he wasn't Stacy – and he _would_ be back. But with all his pain distracting him, that was hard to latch onto.

Luckily for him, he didn't have to wait very long. Wilson was back at his side only moments after he'd left. Time, of course, had become relatively murky for the aging Diagnostician. But still, he was grateful.

"Whaddya doin'?" He slurred as he felt his arm being raised slightly, then the tightening of rubbery plastic against his skin.

"Administering morphine." Came the automated reply.

House would have chuckled had he the strength. "You're such…a …an enabler." He gasped out all the same.

"Lucky for you," Wilson responded softly. "Ready?"

House vaguely saw the vile in his hand. He nodded. Morphine was good, he knew. Morphine made pain ease.

Then the needle was in his vain. Then the rubber around his arm was loosening its pressure. Then the bed was bending slightly with new weight.

All in all, House had no idea how much time had passed. But when the pain dulled down to something resembling manageable, he realized that Wilson was sitting on the edge of his bed.

"Jimmy," he said almost lazily, words slurring slightly. "What would all your wives say?"

"Probably that they saw it coming." He joked with him, and House could hear the concern in his tone.

"I'm fine." He felt the need to insist, though he was still lying back in bed, not even attempting to sit up.

"Yeah," Wilson snorted, but his voice was soft. "That's why you woke up in so much pain you could hardly breathe."

"What are you doing here?" House inquired, changing the topic as he did so often. "What time is it?"

"It's almost one." He responded. "And I'm here because you…because I knew this would happen."

"Should I put _clairvoyant_ on your never-ending list of super powers?" He inquired, feeling more like himself than he had in a long while.

His sleep – as House had predicted – had been absent of any emotional upheaval. He'd been free to rest soundly. Only now that he was awake did he have to deal with reality again.

"How do you feel?" Wilson asked instead of responding to his barb. It had been half-hearted, House silently conceded.

"Fine," he would have shrugged, but self-preservation kicked in. "How much morphine did you give me?"

"Enough." Wilson answered vaguely. "You're an idiot, you know."

House looked up to his friend, sitting on the edge of his bed in only a T-shit and sweatpants, hair untamed and wild looking – he knew in that moment that he owed his best friend a lot. Too much. It made him want to shrink away, but at the same time, move closer.

Wilson kept talking, oblivious to House's internal musings. "You get stabbed, dislocate your shoulder, strain your leg God only knows how much, then you come home and act like nothing's wrong."

"I-"

"You should have checked yourself into the hospital." He interrupted. "You're an idiot."

"I don't want to go to the hospital." He forced the words to come out warningly, incase his friend was planning on overpowering him, forcing him to become a patient again.

"I know." Wilson sighed, clamping the back of his neck in a gesture that was so familiar to the older man. "You don't have to."

"Damn right I don't have to." But inside he was breathing deep in relief.

"So, how do you feel?" Wilson asked again, lowering his hand. Moving it instead to House's wrist, checking his pulse.

House enjoyed the physical contact.

"I'm fine." He repeated, and tried not to sigh in relief as Wilson's hand remained where it was.

"Okay, we're two for two. Why don't you try telling me the truth now?"

This time House did sigh – it was one of annoyance tinged with acceptance. "My leg is strained and my shoulder throbs. The stab actually doesn't feel all that bad, anymore."

"You pushed yourself yesterday." Wilson was done checking for a pulse, but didn't remove his hand, keeping it clutched tight in his grasp. House thought that maybe Jimmy needed this, too.

"No shit." His still managed to answer dryly. "Hey, if it's one, why aren't you at work?"

"I took a few days off." Wilson answered honestly. "So did you."

"I did now?" House raised his eyebrows inquisitively.

"Hell yes you did." Wilson snapped, eyes becoming small slits, hand around his wrist tightening slightly. "Damn it, House, do you even remember what happened yesterday?"

"Of course I remember-"

But his anger was interrupted. "Then you damn well know that you need a _least _a few days off. You made Chase take some time off."

"When did you-"

"And I'm doing the same for you." He cut across him, yet again. "The hospital can live without us for a while."

"I guess it can." House conceded, because that was easier.

Wilson sighed. "Do you want to talk about it now?"

House had known this question was coming, but even hearing it made him tired. Despite having slept nearly fourteen hours, he was still tired, utterly exhausted – mentally and physically.

"I don't want to talk about it ever." He responded, and let his eyes drift shut for a moment that lasted so much longer than a moment.

Wilson was still clutching his wrist. "I don't know what to say." There was an utter helplessness in his tone that the older man was not used to hearing. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your job to fix everything." House reminded, still teetering on the edge of _out if it _from the morphine and the rise and fall of his pain.

"No," Wilson chuckled sadly. "That's your job, right?"

"Maybe…" House let the word trail off. "I fix every_thing_, you fix every_one_. Together, we're God."

"Go back to sleep, House." His friend said after a moment of digesting that philosophy. "You need to sleep."

"It'll hurt when I wake up." He tired to say this logically, because after all, his personal past experience had taught him that – but it came out more of a whine. Maybe a bit of a plea.

Jimmy just smiled down at him sadly. "I know, buddy," he squeezed his wrist one last time. "But I'll be here."

TBC…


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: This story started out with a slight Cameron/Chase undertone, but as it's developed I've added that aspect in more noticeably. Specifically in this chapter, as it features nothing but. This wasn't intentional, but the more I explore this world, the more I realize that this relationship is a big part of it. Just rest assured that it won't become the main focus of the whole story.

Chapter Fifteen

"_Happy Valentine's day." She'd known as soon as he'd said that that her vaguely formed idea was destined to pan out. Allison Cameron had never given destiny or fate much – if any - credibility, but sometimes dumb luck could play a good hand. _

"_A holiday that only applies to people who are already paired up." She'd pointed out logically. Working with House for so long had made her far too logical. "For everyone else, it's Wednesday."_

"_Oh, well, thank you for that dash of cold water." Chase had teased her negative attitude, and for some reason, she'd wanted to defend herself._

"_Don't get me wrong. I still think true love's out there." In hopes of keeping this conversation light, she'd added, "It's just really far away. Possibly in another Galaxy. We made need to develop faster than light travel before we can make contact."_

_They'd made their way to the outside of the hospital. Snow was falling, and they'd still been standing next to each other. Chase had looked so cute, almost innocent, with his dark hat gathering pristine white snow flakes._

"_So, I'm thinking we should have sex."_

"_That…makes… sense…" He'd been bemused. Cameron had expected nothing less. So she'd come prepared. House also installed in all his employees the great importance of proper preparation. _

"_Despite the wisdom of pop songs, there's no point in putting our lives on hold until love comes along. We're both healthy, and busy people. We work together so it's convenient." _

"_Like microwave pizza..?" Cameron had wanted to smile at his metaphor. She'd always been a sucker for anything microwaveable. _

_But she'd continued on as if he'd said nothing. She'd still needed to lay down her logic. "And out of all the people I work with, you're the one I'm least likely to fall in love with."_

"_Like microwave pizza." He'd been much more confident in his metaphor this time. His eyes had been dancing with amusement, confusion and something else that she purposely didn't try to identify. _

"_The point here is to make things simpler, not more complicated. Some day there'll be time to get serious about someone. Meanwhile…we already had sex once and didn't get weird about it, so…"_

"_I get it. I get it. So, what if I'm offended by your judgment?" He'd lowered his eyebrows questioningly. _

"_Then you're not the man I'm looking for." They'd stared for a moment longer before she'd walked away. _

_Outside she'd been calm, collected and confident. She'd told herself that Chase was just an option, a test subject. If he had truly been offended by her offer, then that was okay. There were other things out there to microwave. _

_On the inside she'd been a wreck of nerves and emotional upheaval. She hadn't been worried about him discarding her offer and then telling others about it. She hadn't been concerned at all about gaining a reputation as a whore. _

_She knew Chase would never use something so personal against her. Even House hadn't used their date against her after the fact. Well, at least not much. And Chase was more moral and considerate than House could ever hope to be. _

_What'd really bothered her was something she hadn't wanted to identify. She'd wanted Chase to agree. That was that. _

_All of her internal musings proved rather irrelevant after only a few short moments, however. _

_Not long after she'd turned away, she'd heard footsteps speeding up behind her. She'd smiled. _

_Chase's arm was around her shoulders and they'd been walking in stride. He'd spoken with a smile on his lips and playfulness in his voice. _

"_I like the idea," he'd pulled her just a little bit closer, and all the cold around her had melted away. "Of being your…microwave pizza." _

Cameron had been awake for a while. She was in pain now that the sedatives had worn off. It was unfamiliar to her – this pain. After working with House so much, being around the man so frequently, she almost thought that she could understand pain.

His pain was constant, never-ending. It dictated every move he made; his mood at any given moment had be weighed out and accounted for in two ways; the current circumstances, and his level of pain.

And in turn, his pain directly influenced _her _life. The atmosphere of her work setting was always determined by her boss's mood. And House's mood always swung on a dime at the whim of his damaged thigh.

Every person who had continual – or even fleeting – contact with Greg House knew a little more about pain than they had coming in. Cameron had assumed that she was well versed in this subject because of that.

She'd been wrong.

"Hey," a sleepy Australian greeting roused her from her thoughts. "You a'ight?"

She smiled and turned towards Dr. Robert Chase, M.D. Her friend, her lover, her co-worker, her protector. Her microwave pizza.

"I'm a little sore." She whispered, though she wasn't sure why. No one else was in the room with them.

"Want another dose of-"

"No." She cut him off, shaking her head. They were lying in her tiny hospital bed together; Chase curled up on the side away from her casts. Now that they were both awake a speaking, their faces were mere centimeters apart. "I'm okay."

He raised a single eyebrow and she smiled slightly. "Okay, maybe not." She admitted. "But I'm getting there."

"You'll be out of the hospital in a few days," he spoke while running his fingers up and down her arm. The contact was welcome, craved and completely accepted. "We're going to take some time off."

"We?" She questioned.

"However long you need to get better." His voice was a deep, husky drawl. "I'll be with you."

"House won't-"

"House insisted." Chase cut her off, a smile of his own fleeting across his features.

She sighed. "I guess this kind of thing really brings out the best in people."

He studied her closely for a long moment. Cameron felt something intense build up inside her every time he looked at her like that. It was complicated – it was like Chase was looking at her and seeing exactly who she was. But underneath that, he was seeing everything she could be. Everything he could be. Everything they could be together.

That look – his hopes and expectations – that was why she'd originally called off their arrangement. She hadn't wanted anything that deep. That complicated.

She hadn't wanted to fall in love.

"Are you okay?" He finally questioned. She knew he really wanted to know.

"Not really." She shrugged, telling the truth. "But who is?"

"No one, I guess." He deflated, and the hand on her arm stopped and squeezed gently. "People die around here all the time. But…it's been a long time since I've had to deal with a loss on a personal level. I don't think I know how to grieve like an adult."

Cameron thought that he was probably referring to his father – as far as she had ever been able to tell, he'd never grieved about that at all. Or maybe, she thought, studying his face intently, he had grieved a long time ago. When his father had first left him.

His mother too, had died when he was so young. It made sense that he didn't know how to let go properly. He didn't even know how to try.

But she did. She'd grown up with a mother and a father and a big brother – all of whom had loved her, and still love her, unconditionally – and they had taught her many things. Had always been there to support her when she didn't understand something.

She thought maybe it was time to share a little of that.

"You know," she began, "Foreman…he's kind of the reason me and you started dating."

Chase raised his eyebrows curiously; he obviously didn't have a clue as to where she was going with this. And Cameron wouldn't realize until much later that she had used the term _dating _for the first time ever while referring to what she and Chase had.

"Yeah? How?"

"We were talking," she explained. "In the lab one night – the night before Valentine's Day, actually – and he said, he said that I didn't really know what commitment was."

"I'm not following you." The blonde man shook his head confusedly, but began again the up and down motions on her forearm. She took that as an indication that he wanted this conversation to progress.

"He said, that the people who avoid commitment are the ones who know what a big deal it really is." She quoted her lost friend's words. It hadn't been long ago that she'd been in the front seat for this dialogue. And as a lump formed in her throat and tears pushed to free themselves behind her eyes, she thought maybe she should have chosen a different example.

"That's true." He shrugged.

"Yeah," Cameron agreed, nodding and clearing her throat. "And it got me thinking. Really thinking about the way I was living, and I realized that I'd been missing out."

"On sex." Chase guessed.

"At first." She nodded. "He also said that…well, he said, _commitment is only commitment because it has no expiration date. You stand next to someone and watch them floss for _thirty_ years, like my parents have, then ask for sacrifices. That's how you know the real thing." _

Chase looked impressed. "Wow." He smiled a little. "How come Foreman was never that deep and meaningful with me?"

And they laughed. Then Cameron smiled her own knowing smile. This was how you let go of somebody.

You remembered them.

"The point," she pressed on, as if she hadn't just fulfilled her actual goal. "Is that I took what he said to heart. And the next day when-"

"When you compared me to microwave pizza." He filled in for her, smiling at her so genuinely, so completely, that she briefly wondered how she could have ever convinced herself that this wasn't love.

"Right," she rolled her eyes, "I…wanted us to have that relationship because of what he said. Not because I didn't want commitment, but because I did. I just didn't want to…commit to it yet."

"That makes no sense." Chase told her bluntly, shaking his head slightly.

"I knew that we had something." She began to explain.

"We _do_ have something." He corrected the use of her tenses and her heart swelled with love for him.

"Yes, we do." She agreed softly. "And I knew it then, finally realized it because of what Foreman said that night. I just wasn't ready for it."

He looked at her for a long moment – that look that could bare her soul. "And now?"

"Now…" she met his eyes and wanted to never look away. "Now I want to stand next to you for thirty years and watch you floss."

Chase's grin was immediate and wide – his teeth were bright and perfect (Oh yes, there would be flossing) but even that couldn't match up to his sparkling eyes. "Yeah?"

Cameron nodded and the moment was as perfect as that moment could be, so they kissed. Light and gentle, reassuring and comforting. By the time she pulled away, she knew without doubt that they would be okay.

"Yeah." She nodded. His arms were around her, and she snuggled into his embrace as much so as was physically possible.

And maybe they weren't perfect. Maybe their lives would never be the same again. They would have to deal with Foreman's death, with Cameron's attack and with House's pain forever.

They would have to deal. That was what made it bearable, that's what made her as positive as House when she said she knew they would be okay.

It was a _they _now.

And when Chase spoke softly sometime later, whispering into her hair something that they were both thinking, she knew too that they wouldn't just be okay. They would be happy again.

"Thank you, Foreman."

TBC…


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Remember how I said this story would be twenty chapters long all together? Yeah, well, apparently I fibbed a little. You can now look forward to twenty chapters plus an epilogue. Remember also, that reviews are love._

Chapter Sixteen

He'd started out playing something light, upbeat – one of the first real songs he'd ever learned, the only one his mother had ever known and taught him in his youth. Quickly though, that melody laced the air with a false sense of hope. And since House knew there was no hope left – at least not in that moment – he'd changed.

The next tune had been a classical jazz piece that Alex and Stacy had both loved. Stacy – who had always enjoyed listening to his piano playing – had said she'd enjoyed it because it was complicated, interwoven. She'd said the way his fingers dashed across the keys so fast – it was almost like magic.

Alex had never appreciated jazz – the guy had been tone deaf and thus only liked songs he could dance to, move with. Songs he could listen to while working out. He'd liked this piece, though, and House thought it had something to do with a club and their amateur night that he'd caught him playing at so long ago.

"_You look good up there." He'd said with a smirk and a shoulder nudge. _

_House had just grinned. _

Because of those memories, however, that song had soon started to wear at his soul, so he'd switched again.

Nothing but mindless, random notes for a while - then a song by _Styx _became audible. _Renegade. _He was playing _Renegade. _He hummed the lyrics he'd learned so long ago.

_Oh, mama, I'm in fear for my life from the long arm of the law_

_Law man has put an end to my runnin' and I'm so far from my home_

_Oh, mama I can hear you a cryin' you're so scared and all alone_

_Hangman is comin' down from the gallows and I don't have very long_

The next verse became substantially more complicated as the song switched from deep and slow to upbeat and intricate. He played it anyway.

It was a hard song to play on the piano, and even his baby grand left something to be desired during the chorus. He wished he could pull down his guitar and give that a whirl, but his shoulder wasn't up for that.

Hell, his shoulder wasn't up for the piano – but he'd needed an out. Needed a way to release at least some of what was building up inside him. He felt scattered, on-edge, ready to burst.

It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling for the aging doctor, but even so, he'd never grown accustomed to it. In his younger years, he would go running, do something physical until he dropped from exhaustion - biking, swimming, hiking, fights – he'd never been still.

After the infarction, he'd had nothing left. Nothing to wear him down to the point of not caring anymore. It's why he needed his distractions, his job, his conflicts.

_I'm in fear for my life from the long arm of the law…_

Prison would certainly keep him occupied.

It had been three days since he'd killed John Haring. That had been the man's first name – John.

House didn't fail to see the irony.

o0oo0o

"You should go see him." Wilson all but pleaded with his boss. "He doesn't hate you. I don't even think he's mad."

"He's mad." Cuddy bit her lip and stared down at the cup of coffee in her hands. "He has to be."

"He's not acting it." Wilson shrugged a shoulder and took a sip of his own beverage. House was more than not acting angry; he was barely acting out any emotions at all. Sometimes they would come in waves – deep and troubling, usually accompanied by intense pain – but when those stilled, a heavy air of uncertainty would emerge. And nothing Wilson did or said to his friend would undo that atmosphere.

It was like they were living in an in-between place. Where everything that had happened existed, but they couldn't move away from it.

He and Cuddy were at a restaurant not far from the hospital that afternoon – Wilson had thought that a conversation with the older woman might help him sort a few things out. His own feelings, and maybe even House's.

He'd quickly realized, though, that Cuddy was deep within the depths of her own inner hell.

"He followed me here once." She spoke seemingly random words after a few minutes, and Wilson looked at her closely again. It was doubtful that she'd gotten much- if any- real rest in the past four days.

"What?" He pushed when she said no more.

"I was on a date." She clarified somewhat, smiling a little. "And he found me here. House. Messed with me. He was so determined to ruin it…I thought he liked me."

Wilson considered that. It wasn't what he'd come here to discuss, but it was something. "House is immature." He concluded. "He might like you. He's like…an eight-year-old boy pulling a girl's pigtails."

Cuddy laughed, even though tears were visible in her great green eyes. "It doesn't matter." She shook her head. "Not anymore."

"Cuddy…" Wilson tried. Then decided against it. "You know, everyone's taking time off. Why don't you jump on the bandwagon?"

She smiled sadly and a single tear ran down her cheek. Still, she spoke professionally. "I've got an entire hospital to run, Wilson. You know that I can't."

"You should still go see him." Wilson pushed. "You two haven't talked at all since…"

"Since everything went to hell?" She guessed, a dark humor dancing in her tone.

"Yeah." Wilson sighed. "Since then."

o0oo0o

"You probably shouldn't be playing the piano." Chase stood in his doorway, arms crossed, shoulders sagging. He was dressed casually. Though more respectively than House, who wore a T-shirt and sweatpants.

"You probably shouldn't barge into people's houses without knocking. At least not without my say so." His voice held no annoyance, no irritation. He was glad his piano was where it was – he didn't have to move to face his underling.

"You shouldn't leave your door unlocked." He countered, before moving farther into the apartment and shutting said door behind him. "Where's Wilson?"

"Where's Cameron?"

"At her place. Resting." He replied honestly, not rising to the bait. House hadn't really expected him to.

"Wilson went up to the hospital. Met Cuddy for lunch." He didn't know why he felt the need to share. He wasn't even sure if he did. He just didn't feel like hiding.

Chase nodded, but said nothing for a few moments. He looked around House's apartment casually. The older doctor realized somewhat dully that he'd probably been here before – while the ducklings had been searching for clues during his brain cancer scheme.

"Foreman's dad is holding his funeral here." The Australian man blurted suddenly, eyes widening as if he hadn't meant to say that.

House remained impassive. "Why?" He asked first, and then clarified. "Why here?"

"His wife." Chase swallowed and took a step closer. "She's sick. He didn't want to upset her with it. He said that… that his brother's buried out here. Well, a city over. That's where the funeral's gonna be."

House was at first a little confused as to whether Chase was referring to a brother of Forman's or a brother of Foreman's father. Quickly, though, he decided that it really didn't matter.

"Right." He nodded. Chase was still staring, almost frightfully, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. House supposed he was acting unusually calm. "You going?"

Chase looked up, eyes questioning.

"To the funeral." He clarified, and managed to get a smile out of the younger man when he rolled his eyes.

"Oh," Chase stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heals for a few moments. "Cameron wants to. For closure…or something. She's been talking about that a lot lately. Closure. Remembering. Letting go."

House nodded again. He was familiar with these concepts. "How's that going?"

Chase shrugged and managed to not look surprised at getting a personal question from his boss. "It makes sense, I guess."

"Yeah," House echoed. "I guess."

"We are going." He spoke in a more confident tone. "To the funeral."

"Right." He nodded. "Good."

House knew what the next question out of his mouth would be.

"Are you?" His tone was quiet, almost hopeful.

House smirked internally. Predictable.

"Wilson will want me to." Was the only answer he provided.

Chase was smarter than most gave him credit for. He was smart enough to not push beyond that.

The room lapsed into silence once again, and House had to remember the hospital. The night that had changed everything for both of them.

It wasn't just his actions against John Haring that had altered their lives – it was Chase's desperate decision after the fact. And House wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to fully understand what had prompted this man into doing what he'd done.

"So, you any good?" Chase was speaking, and House had to purposely clear his thoughts to focus again.

And he still came up short. "Huh?"

"The piano." Chase nodded towards the instrument. "'Cause…Foreman mentioned it once."

House winced. His Immunologist really was having a noticeable affect on this man.

"Foreman mentioned my mad musical skills?" He went back to joking, if only somewhat.

"Yeah, you remember the case." Chase took yet another step closer, now standing at the edge of the couch, leaning his hip against it slightly. "We were all distracted by your impending death."

It was almost teasing, the way he said those words.

"And you hugged me." House nodded. "I remember."

Something ghosted over Chase's features for a moment – he was recalling his own emotions from then. It seemed a lifetime ago, his fake cancer disaster, but in reality, it hadn't been too long ago at all.

"Play something." The younger man said suddenly.

"Why?" House balked, not understanding for one second the logic that could have gone into that thought process.

"I wanna hear you play something." Was all the reason he offered.

House looked at Chase, studied him intently, unwaveringly. His gaze was long and – if eyes could penetrate physically – it would have been invasive.

And Chase stared back. He met his gaze head-on. Never blinking, his own eyes calm yet determined. House didn't get those kinds of looks from many people, and never very often.

His mom could look at him like that – that's why he'd never been able to lie to her.

Jimmy could pull it off when he was feeling particularly upset or concerned.

Alex had never backed down from a staring contest.

Chase was looking at him now like so few others had before, and the older doctor felt he had no choice. His longest-running employee, his Intensivist, his partner in crime – as lying to the police _was_ a crime – was now officially, undoubtedly, forever more, a part of his life.

His entire life. It would now bend – however slightly – and mold to allow this man access.

House sighed. He was really getting too old for all these constant changes.

Nevertheless, he raised his hands and played.

TBC…


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Lisa Cuddy had been in her office for nearly four days straight. At least, that's what it felt like to her. She'd gone home of course, eventually, but only to pass out for a few hours before returning here.

This hospital was her baby, and she'd be damned if she didn't do everything in her power to protect it.

She'd made so many phone calls in the last few days that she'd literally lost count. She'd beefed up security as much as the hospital funds would allow her, and then she'd dug for more cash and beefed it up some more.

She'd dipped into the lawsuit fund she usually kept stored away for House's misadventures. The security guards within – and without – the building had tripled, security cameras were everywhere they could legally be and she was having metal detectors installed at all the doors she could – again – legally have them installed at.

Still, she felt like it was too little too late. Eric Foreman was still dead. Allison Cameron had still been attacked and nearly sexually assaulted and House…God, House had been stabbed. Not to mention, Chase had seen it all.

John Haring had caused them all so much pain.

John Haring was the bad guy here – the psychopath. He had caused all this. Yet that didn't stop her from feeling guilty. She'd meant what she'd said to Wilson the day before – and she still hadn't been able to face House. Or Chase or Cameron.

She didn't know what she could say to them, to any of them. If they resented her – saw what she saw every time she looked in the mirror – and hated her for what she hadn't done, she wasn't sure if she was ready to face them.

The phone on her desk started to ring, and pulled her somewhat abruptly from her contemplations. This was just as well, she thought, as she was overwhelmed with what sprung to life inside of her whenever there was an unoccupied moment.

"Cuddy." She answered officially, running a hand over her face tiredly. She hadn't bothered with make-up for days now.

"Dr. Cuddy," her assistant's chirpy voice greeted her on the other end of the phone-line. "There's a call for you on line two. A woman who says she's trying to contact Dr. House."

Cuddy's heart leapt, but she managed to sound calm. "Thank you, Helen. Patch me through."

A click followed her command and Cuddy waited. She was fairly certain who was waiting on line two.

Her suspicions were confirmed not thirty seconds later.

"Lisa Cuddy," Blythe House's anxious tone greeted expectedly.

"Mrs. House." The younger woman replied respectively. "How're you doing?" Which was a stupid question, but there was always an off chance she wasn't calling for the reasons Cuddy suspected.

"Me?" She laughed, and Cuddy couldn't tell if it was a laugh of fear, anxiety or deception – this was the woman who raised House, after all. "I'm trying to get a hold of my son, and I'm not having much luck."

Cuddy sighed, and resisted the urge to lower her head onto her desk dejectedly. "I'm assuming…well, I'm assuming that you're calling because of…"

"It made the news out here, Dr. Cuddy." Her tone was sharp. "An attack at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Two doctors injured. One dead. John and I heard it last night. I've been trying to reach Greg since then, but he isn't answering his phone. Work, cell or home."

Cuddy cursed her doctor silently. How hard was it to take two seconds to answer the phone and tell your mother you weren't dead?

"House is fine," Cuddy soothed almost instinctively. She'd met this woman a few times before. Once when she and House had been in medical school together, after the surgery on his leg six years ago, and Cuddy had called her after the shooting. They were on fairly good terms; there was a certain mutual respect between them.

John House was another matter all together. Cuddy had only met the man once – after the infarction – and even then he'd said as little to her as humanly possible. But she'd observed the way he'd interacted with his son.

She'd never seen that much personal space between two people blood related. They obviously had their issues, but the way they'd acted…it was more like polite strangers than anything else.

"He's fine." Blythe breathed, and Cuddy could hear the relief in her tone. "You're sure?"

She debated that for a moment. No, House wasn't fine – but he wasn't dead. She remembered that after the shooting, when she'd told him that she'd called his parents, he'd been furious. Off the wall, furious. Cuddy had actually backed away in fear of having something thrown at her.

She'd been ordered out of the room, but had lingered outside the glass walls and watched as House managed to grab the phone by his bed and make a call. It hadn't lasted very long, and House had been clenching his jaw the whole time. Cuddy had guessed, just by the air of stress and indefinable emotions that had lingered after he'd hung up, that he'd been speaking with his father.

Cuddy recalled that, and something he had told her a year or so ago.

"_I don't hate her. I hate _him._"_

Whatever sort of past House had with his father, it obviously wasn't pleasant, and she didn't want to give the man she'd known for so long anymore reason to hate her right now.

"Yes, I'm sure." She answered, praying to a God she wasn't sure if she believed in anymore that she was doing the right thing. "But it was someone in his department that was killed." Those words hurt to say, but she pushed past that, knowing it wasn't her time to lapse into self-pity. "That's why he hasn't been available."

"Good God." The older woman croaked, and Cuddy could practically see the hand rising to her mouth. "That's awful."

"Yes." She said solemnly. "It really is."

They were both silent for a few long moments, as if mourning for the recently departed.

"Will you…will you tell him to call me when he gets a chance?" Blythe spoke again eventually, her tone much lighter than it had been coming into this conversation. "I'm sorry I called you-"

"That's perfectly fine." Cuddy interjected at once. Because it was.

"I was just…oh, never mind." There was some shuffling on the other line, and the younger woman thought she might have heard approaching footsteps. "Just…tell him that I'm glad he's alright."

"Sure." It little more than a whisper, but Blythe didn't seem to notice.

"Bye, Dr. Cuddy."

There was a click and then nothing. "Yeah," she said as she lowered the phone. "Bye."

o0oo0o

She knocked on the door and waited a minute and a half before knocking again – this time louder.

It was Wilson who finally answered, and Cuddy was startled despite herself. She'd known that Wilson was living with House - she had practically begged for the Oncologist to stay with him in light of recent events – but still, seeing him opening the door to his best friend's apartment, it was a little odd.

"Cuddy." The younger man seemed just as taken aback as she was. Though for different reasons, obviously. "You came."

"I need to talk to House." She had her arms folded across her chest, as if that might protect her somehow.

Wilson nodded and opened the door wider.

House was sitting on his couch with his legs propped up on the coffee table. He could have been watching TV, for how intently he was staring at the screen – had the television been on.

At her entrance he glanced at her and immediately smirked. "Why, doctor, I didn't know you made house calls." He paused thoughtfully. "House call. If we were in a porn movie, that would be an appropriately witty title."

"Yeah," Cuddy played along, because bickering with House was something of a default setting after all these years. Wilson was shutting the door behind her and staying close. "Too bad you're too hurt to hold up your end of the deal."

"There are other way to have fun," he raised his eyebrows at her suggestively and she couldn't help but smile. It was almost as if nothing had changed.

Then her perceptive gaze picked up on something.

"That wasn't the same sling you had the other day." She figured it was better to refer to it as nothing except _the other day. _

"Yeah," Wilson interrupted. "Genius here thought he'd play the piano with his shoulder inflamed. I had to give him something with more support."

Cuddy narrowed her gaze at the Diagnostician. "For a brilliant doctor you can be a little dense."

"So, what are you doing here?" House questioned, narrowing his own eyes and effectively turning the atmosphere of the room incredibly tense.

"I'm gonna go make dinner." Wilson piped up behind her, "You staying?"

When Cuddy turned to look at him, she glared. _Chicken, _she said internally. Though really she was just concerned about being left alone with House. "Doubt it." She muttered, and soon, Wilson was gone.

Pots and pans started clanging about in the kitchen before Cuddy worked up the nerve to move over to the couch and take a seat at the far end, away from House, knowing she would never receive an invitation.

The doctor in question just shifted a bit and looked at her steadily.

"Your mom called the hospital." She began, and quickly rehashed her conversation with Blythe for her son.

House nodded, swallowed, and spoke in a somewhat scratchy tone after a few moments. "What about him?"

She didn't need a House-to-English dictionary to understand what he meant. "She didn't mention him." Cuddy said. "I think he was there, but I didn't talk to him."

"Right." The older doctor nodded, and Cuddy watched as emotion played out on his face for just a moment, before reverting back to stoic and unfazed. She thought she might have seen disappointment, but that could have just as easily been anger.

"Are you gonna call her back?" Because, for probably the first time in recorded history, parents were the easier topic of conversation to broach.

"Eventually." House nodded, and Cuddy knew better than to ask why he hadn't just answered her calls in the first place.

Silence filtered in again, heat from the stove in the kitchen was making her uncomfortable. She wanted to say something more – she wanted to say so many things – but she couldn't figure out how to begin.

House beat her to it. "Are you going to the funeral?"

Cuddy started. Not even on the list of things she'd been expecting. "Ah…it's tomorrow." She replied dumbly.

"I'm aware." House tilted his head a little. "Are you?"

"Yes." She nodded.

"Of course," House nodded too. "It'd be inappropriate not to, right?"

Cuddy felt highly insulted by that comment. Mostly because she couldn't tell if it was an intended dig, or just how House really saw her.

"I'm going because I want to." She snapped. "Because I liked Foreman, I cared about him, and I'm truly sorry about what happened."

The Diagnostician sighed, "Yeah, I know." Was all he offered.

"Are you going?" She questioned back.

"Is that really why you came here?" He replied – she should have known better than to expect a straight answer.

"No," she shook her head.

Blue eyes met green. "Then what-"

"I'm sorry." She blurted. She'd been holding that in for far too long.

"Sorry?" House repeated. "About…Foreman?"

He sounded a little bemused, but his eyes sparkled with understanding. She nodded. "And you and Cameron. Chase was right. He yelled at me and-"

"Yeah, I know." House interrupted and narrowed his eyes contemplatively before going on. "Chase has a little temper, Cuddy. He was angry that night. He took it out on you and Wilson. Mostly on you. That doesn't mean he was completely right."

"Doesn't mean he was completely wrong, either." She pointed out.

"Maybe." House allowed, and Cuddy felt her heart sink.

"So, you do blame me." Her voice was small, and she had to look away from his penetrating gaze just to keep herself from crying.

"Gawd…" House drawled after a few moments. "It's your roof and Alfredo all over again."

Cuddy's head snapped up at that. "What?"

"The fact that Foreman died…" he took a deep breath of his own after saying that, but kept going as if nothing had happened a second later. "…isn't your fault. It isn't my fault. It isn't Chase's or Cameron's fault, either."

"Well, of course not." She balked.

"But why not?" House shrugged. "We were all there. We could have stopped him."

There was something almost flippant about his tone, something that Cuddy should have been able to pick up on and examine more thoroughly – but she was stuck on his words.

"You were hurt." She exclaimed, throwing her arms out. "You couldn't have done anything. As it is, what you _did _do probably saved three other lives. Plus that little girl's."

Something dark flashed through House's eyes, but it was gone so fast, Cuddy couldn't be sure she'd seen it at all.

"Blaming yourself is as stupid as blaming me. Or Cameron. Or Wilson." House's logic was – as usual – inarguable.

Slowly, Cuddy began to see things from a different perspective. From House's perspective. And she realized, somewhat anticlimactically, that this was exactly why she'd been putting off coming to visit House.

She knew this man well enough to know that he'd offer her comfort by means of logical reasoning. She hated the way House could rationalize anything – hated it as much as she loved it. Because it was that logic that could put anything back into perspective for her.

But while she'd been stuck in a world of self-pity, she hadn't had to face her own devastation over what had happened. House had taken away her walls, her defenses. He'd essentially stripped her bare.

"I'm so sorry." But this time she wasn't apologizing out of guilt, she was doing it out of sympathy.

She knew the grief she was now feeling must only be a fraction of what House was feeling. And still, he could hide it so well.

He looked at her with sympathy of his own, and a brief, small smile that made her feel almost okay for a moment.

They had so much more to discuss, Cuddy knew, yet she couldn't bring herself to say any of it. Because in that moment, it just didn't matter.

She sat with House on his couch as the smell of Wilson's cooking filtered in from the kitchen and thought that maybe, for now, this was enough.

TBC…


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

"So…" Wilson peaked out from the kitchen once he heard the front door open and close. "No screaming, I guess that's good."

He was drying his hands on a dishrag as he moved into House's line of vision, keeping it clenched in his grip almost nervously.

"Depends on the sort of screaming." House pointed out as he went back to staring at the blank television screen.

"True," Wilson allowed, and let a moment of silence pass between them to see if his friend would say anything more unprompted. But of course, Wilson should have known better than to even hope. "So, what'd she want?"

"Please," House scoffed, "Like you weren't listening."

Wilson grasped the back of his neck with one hand, letting the one with the rag hang loose at his side. "Well, you're apartment's small. And voices carry."

"True." House agreed. "That's where the whole stethoscope on the door thing comes in handy."

Wilson cringed – they had invented that policy for a reason, and it wasn't just so House could make him stay outside for hours at a time for his own twisted sense of entertainment. The first time Wilson had crashed at House's place for more than a night, he'd unintentionally walked in on him and some little blonde thing going at it like bunnies.

"For the purpose of this conversation," Wilson lowered his hand and crossed his arms, "Let's not mention that."

"Fine." House grunted. He'd been the master of few words lately.

"Fine." Wilson agreed, and then sighed. "So, are you gonna call your mom back?"

"Yeah. Eventually." House didn't look up.

"Are you gonna talk to Cuddy again? Because, I don't think too much got resolved just now." Wilson pressed, speaking fast and hoping for honestly.

"Maybe."

"Are you gonna go to the funereal?" He threw in and, as expected, House finally looked up.

"You are, right?" He inquired lightly, only a slight strain in his tone.

"Yeah," Wilson sighed again, he knew his friend didn't want to hear this right now, but a woman – a Rhonda Foreman – had called him last night. Rhonda was apparently Rodney's sister-in-law, and she'd flown up here to take care of all the funeral arrangements.

She'd asked him if he and House were planning on attending. He could only assume that she'd gotten House's home number from Cuddy. He'd answered for himself and the Diagnostician.

"I'll go." House leaned his head to rest it on the back of the couch. "You already told whoever called yesterday that I was going to, anyway."

Wilson's eyes widened in shock. "How did you…"

"Voices carry, remember?" House mocked his words from earlier and Wilson couldn't help the slight smile that he felt tugging at his mouth.

"Well, that's good." He said. House just nodded. "Really."

This was far too awkward. The atmosphere around these two men hadn't been this utterly strained for a long time. Wilson was at a loss as to how to fix it.

"You have a suit, right?" He asked, simply for something to say. He already knew the answer.

Which was probably why House rolled his eyes at him instead of verbally responding.

"Listen, House," Wilson moved closer and sat down on the couch next to his friend. "How're you feeling?" Which wasn't what he'd been going to say at all, but seemed much easier now that the words were out.

"Fine." The older man grunted. "No more breakthrough pain. Just some general and located aches."

"That's good." Wilson leaned forward, bracing his arms across his legs. "But if it gets any worse, we could always get you on Percoset or-"

"I'm fine." House interrupted.

"For now," Wilson countered, before letting it go and leaning backwards.

House was staring straight ahead again, and both men lapsed into yet another silence – these long stretches of too intense quiet were becoming more than a little daunting. They always seemed to represent something – failure, impending arguments, or remnants of grief.

Then again, maybe this was just what was left over when someone in your life died unexpectedly, when no one knew how to act or what to say.

Or maybe he was just over thinking everything as he so often did.

He turned to House. "Say something deep and meaningful to make this all seem not so awful." He demanded bluntly.

House looked at him and quirked an eyebrow. It wasn't the first time over the course of their friendship that Wilson had asked for something along these lines.

And the older doctor always replied in some way or another. And he always managed to make everything at least a tiny bit better. Today he went with, "This sucks."

Wilson snorted. It wasn't exactly deep and meaningful, but it was exactly what he'd needed to hear. "Yeah...it does." He let out a deep breath, "You wanna beer?"

o0oo0o

Chase had stopped dead, and was now staring at her like a – as House would probably say – little Wombat caught in the headlights. Cameron wasn't sure what had prompted her to ask the question she just had, but Chase's reaction was unexpected, if nothing else.

"Wh...What?" The man stuttered, still standing in the middle of her kitchen holding a coffee filter in one hand.

"I was just…" she sighed, and looked down at the table she was sitting at. Solid wood - she'd bought this at a garage sale from a little old lady one of the first weeks she'd moved to Princeton. She'd always loved it. "Curious."

"Yeah," Chase visibly swallowed. "Understandable."

"It's just…you haven't talked about it. And God knows House is never going to offer up any information voluntarily." She took a deep breath, shifted her propped up, cast-clad leg and tried to make her voice not quiver as she spoke. "I just want to know what really happened."

"Are you sure?" Chase finally set the coffee filter on the counter and took a step closer to her. He ran a hand through his hair, making it ruffled and skewed. She'd always liked him better when his hair wasn't perfectly in place. "Are you really, _really _sure? Because sometimes-"

"Ignorance is bliss." She interrupted. She wasn't sure if that's what he'd been going to say, but it seemed fitting either way.

She remembered when she'd told House that, after giving him the hundred dollars he'd won off her from their bet on the happily married couple. She had never been able to figure out if he'd just been too caught up in the case to remind her of the money, or if he had been intending to actually let it go.

She thought about that woman now – the one who'd been poisoning her husband, trying to kill him, for reasons they'd never be able to fully understand.

For weeks after that woman had been arrested and her husband had been released from the hospital, the team tried to figure it out. _The purple finger lady, the purple finger murder _– they'd come up with quite a few bizarre names for her and the case, all based on House's unusual manner of not only solving a medical mystery, but also unearthing an attempted murder.

She thought that it was probably a good thing House had never wanted to be a cop or, more accurately, a detective – though he'd have made a damn good one – his talents were more needed in the hospital. Plus, he wouldn't have been able to keep working after the infarction.

"Cameron?" Chase's tentive voice interrupted her drifting thoughts.

They still almost always referred to each other by their surname's when they were together, despite the changed context of their relationship. She briefly wondered if that would shift over time, before realizing that she didn't care much. As long as they _had_ the time in which to figure that out.

"I want to know." She spoke firmly, completely confident that – in this case at least – ignorance would bring everything except bliss. "What really happened the night John Haring died?"

o0oo0o

"What happened the night John Haring died?" Wilson asked the question after dinner – and three beers – hoping that House would be calm enough to answer honestly.

The other man just looked at him with purposefully ambiguous eyes. "What do you mean?" He asked slowly.

"I mean," Wilson took a deep breath and set his own beer bottle down on the table. "We haven't talked about it since that morning. I said that the police might suspect that you'd…murdered him. And you agreed."

House took a drink and licked his lips once the bottle was lowered and resting on his left thigh. "They didn't arrest me, Wilson. That's a pretty big tip-off as far as that goes."

"True." Wilson nodded. "But we still haven't talked about it."

"We don't actually have to talk everything to death." House's tone was an attempt at light, but something much stronger was lurking just below the surface. "We're not chicks and this isn't a soap opera."

Wilson closed his eyes and counted to seven - he never had been able to make it all the way to ten when dealing with House. "I know," he allowed and took in practiced, controlled breaths. "But can you just answer one question for me?"

The Oncologist had been expecting sarcasm, off-beat humor, complete ignorance, an irritating metaphor, some statistical analogy or something else equally unhelpful.

But, for one of the first times in their entire friendship, House looked at him and spoke sincerely. "I guess I probably owe you that much, huh?"

Wilson didn't want to confirm or deny that, so he just asked what he wanted to ask, before House's mood shifted again.

"Did you lie to the cops?"

TBC…


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

o0oo0o

_House had snorted. "Well…it's kinda funny you should ask that…" _

o0oo0o

_Chase had taken a deep breath and wished for a moment that his parents – either of them – had ever bothered to give him any sort of advice about the complicated mess that was truth and relationships. _

_As it was, he was just a guy who'd grown up with a spectacularly minimum amount of parental interference. He'd raised himself, in every way that truly mattered, and he was paying the price for it now. _

_Because while his past had made him strong, determined and infallible in many regards, it also led him to look other places for role models and examples of how the world was really supposed to work. _

_Many of those ideals had tapered off as he'd grown, been replaced with new ones, logical ones. _

_He and House were similar in that regard – just for entirely different reasons. _

_Because when he'd been a child, all his morals and ethics had been taught to him by fictional outlets. Book, movies, television, the fake-happy families that he could only see from the outside. _

_And he'd learned from them that, while life was never perfect, if you tried your best and made amends when you screwed up, there'd be a happy ending waiting for you right before the credits rolled. _

"_Chase?" Cameron had questioned again, her tone soft, patient and loving. _

_He could lie and screw this up. _

_Or he could tell the truth and screw this up. _

_Life was more complicated than his fifteen-year-old self – jaded as he'd been – could have ever hoped to realize. _

_He was stuck now in an eternal loop of wanting to go back to that innocent time and resenting it so vehemently because it hadn't been innocent at all. _

_And in many ways this was better. Because, this now, this was his. _

_Yet he still wished longingly for the past. _

_No one had ever taught him how to let go. _

_Conflicting emotions. _

_That was all this was, he'd known – an intertwining mess of conflicting emotions. _

"_What really happened…" he'd begun. _

_The whole world was just a mess of confliction. Emotions, ideals, actions, people and hope. _

_He'd be glad when this was all over. _

o0oo0o

Rodney Foreman was sure, that if it wasn't for his wife and his remaining son, he'd be dead by now.

He was too old to be alive anymore. Age measured by experience and loss – not by actual years. Because there were men living well into their nineties who still had a thirst for life.

Those were the men, this lost father knew, who hadn't seen death or tragedy come about in such an unfair manner. They hadn't watched their youngest son get placed behind bars, hadn't cried silently as the wife they'd loved for so many years didn't recognize them time and time again.

Those were the men who never had to stand by and do nothing – been powerless – as their eldest son died of multiple stab wounds inflicted by an enraged, abusive father. A father who had lost so much when his wife had died that he'd begun hurting his own daughter.

Rodney would never know how his son had done it. How Eric had stood by and overseen cases like this. Cases where families hurt their own children. Beat them, abused them, poisoned them.

As a man who'd never gone to college or had a prestigious career himself, he obviously didn't know all that much about the inner workings of a hospital and its patients, but he watched enough crime shows to get a vague idea.

Then there were the things Eric had told him. His eldest son had never been too open about his work experiences, but had graced his father with enough indistinct recollections.

It hurt him to think these things now. Because he was thinking about his son in past tense. It had been so easy for him to slip into this heartbreaking pattern. He'd grown up in a world filled with gang violence and related deaths. He'd been a member of a gang himself until his mid-twenties – when he'd met his wife and started a new life.

But his old one had never left him, and it never would. He was all too used to the people he knew, people close to him, people he loved – dying. Dying young. Dying for no reason. Dying unfairly.

He'd been so sure, as he'd watched Eric make a life for himself in the field of medicine, that his eldest son would be the one person in his life he'd never have to worry about when it came to those things.

But he'd been proved wrong.

So incredibly wrong, that as he sat in the front pew at his son's funeral, he wished for death.

And he wasn't sure if it was a wish that would pass in time, or if this was, essentially, the beginning of the end.

o0oo0o

"We're so sorry for your loss." Chase spoke formally to Rhonda Foreman, shaking her hand in both of his, hoping he was doing something right.

Cameron was bound to a wheelchair – as both her arm and her ankle were in casts – but that didn't stop her from taking Rhonda's hand in her own as soon as Chase let it go.

"Your nephew was an amazing man," she had tears in her eyes, and Chase loved her in that moment even more than he had before, because he knew how sincere they were, how much she was truly mourning. "We're all beyond devastated over what happened."

Rhonda just gave them a watery smile and nodded briefly. Chase nodded back and went to push Cameron's wheelchair away from the front of the church.

"Have you seen his father?" The brunette mumbled once they were toward the back of the building.

"He left not long after the service." Chase recollected for her what he'd seen. "I think House is with him. Cuddy and Wilson are up front still."

The service had been a classic Catholic funereal. Chase had observed many such rites while he'd been in the seminary. Sitting in the pews, however, as a man you used to work with, one you might even go as far as to call a friend, was being spoken about and praised for the last time…well, that was something all together different.

Something that Chase wasn't quite ready to face yet.

"I think I want to go home." Cameron spoke in a respectively quiet voice. "I don't…I don't feel too great."

Chase eyed her critically from the side of her chair. He'd known the funeral would be too big a strain for her. But she'd wanted to come – had said that they both needed to be here. And he didn't regret it. Not for one second.

"We'll go." Chase whispered, squeezing her shoulder gently.

"We should tell someone we're leaving." But even as she was saying it, House appeared through one of the side doors of the chapel. Chase turned around to face the front again, Cameron still staring at the back door a little longingly.

It was odd to see House in formal attire, Chase thought absently. The only time before today that he could recall his boss dressing up was at the Oncology benefit last year. But there he stood – black suit and tie, fancy cane with the silver handle - offset only slightly by the sling that still held his left arm against his chest snugly.

It just made this whole thing feel even more surreal.

Chase met the older man's gaze from across the church. He nodded vaguely towards Cameron and then to the back door. House's lips pressed together in a thin line and he nodded understandingly, making a small gesture of his own towards Wilson and Cuddy.

"House will tell them." He said quietly as he wheeled her out the door finally.

o0oo0o

"It's been hours."

And it had been, House reflected dully as he poured himself another glass of Scotch and sat back against his couch.

It had been hours since Foreman's funeral, hours since the wake, hours since Rodney declared he was going home to his wife. House doubted he would ever hear from that man again.

He blamed House for Foreman's death.

Which was okay. As House blamed himself just as much.

And now Wilson was hovering over him almost protectively. It was nice and comforting to know that their relationship hadn't change too dramatically in the midst of all this.

"I know." House took a sip of his Scotch and then took another – until the glass was empty and he was feeling comfortably fuzzy. "Jimmy…at what point, do you just stop trying?"

His friend was surly looking at him with concern, but House could not meet his gaze.

"What?" He asked.

"Never mind." He muttered. "It doesn't matter."

"You should go to bed." Wilson said gently.

"I should." House agreed. "But there's something I have to do first."

o0oo0o

"I'll be back, alright?" Chase whispered to a sleeping Cameron.

All he got was muttered, "…m'kay…" in response.

He bent down and kissed her forehead lovingly. And as he made his way silently out the front door, he prayed.

For the first time in years he prayed – that just this once there might be a happy ending after all.

TBC…


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

The two men had arrived within a half an hour of each other. It hadn't been a planned meeting, but neither was surprised to see the other.

House's cane was back to a normal, everyday one - a diffremt one, though, then the one he'd killed Haring with. That one was stored in the back of his closet. House would never walk with it again.

His clothes were casual, as well. A T-shirt under the coat that had one sleeve flapping away in the wind since his sling kept his left arm bound to his chest still.

Chase wore black jeans and a black leather jacket – which seemed only fitting. The journey to the gravesite had been long and hard for the Diagnostician, but he was still flying kind of high from the combination of pills and booze.

If Chase didn't give him a ride home later, he'd have to call another cab.

He studied the blonde, who in turn had the majority of his attention – or at least his line of vision – fixed on Foreman's grave.

Chase would give him a ride.

Silence stretched long and hard between them – and was somehow made more noticeable by the darkness of the night.

House knew that silence would have to break. And soon. And he knew it was the younger man who needed to break it.

So House just waited.

"Did you mean to?" Chase's words were quiet. It was fitting, House thought, in this empty graveyard, staring at a stone that was, ultimately, never enough to sum up a life.

"Did I mean to what?" Though House knew exactly what Chase was asking, it was in his nature to answer a question with a question, and – like all people – he would never change.

"Kill Haring." Chase did not look up from Foreman's grave. And again, it all seemed so expected, so planned out. Almost right. Though nothing was ever right.

"Did I mean to kill Haring?" He repeated the question. It felt odd in his mouth, rolling around on his tongue like it didn't truly belong there. It'd been how the cane had felt in his hand the first time he'd used it.

So House deduced logically that, after some time, he'd come to live with those words as much as he'd come to live with the cane. Calluses would form to protect him from the pain and it would be a part of him. Like the damaged thigh, the scar on his neck, the two scars on his stomach.

The untraceable scars that marred his soul.

"You picked up the cane," Chase's words were deliberate, not at all impatient. He seemed to want to hear this answer, almost as much as House did. "But did you mean to hit him where you did? Or were you aiming to just knock him out?"

There was a very specific part of the human skull that was vulnerable enough to cause death when struck heavily. Any other bit of his head, and the cane would have just rendered him unconscious. A slightly different angle, and House wouldn't have committed murder. Mere inches would have been the difference between lying to the police and not lying to the police.

It would have changed everything. But really, what was the point in dwelling on that?

"It's irrelevant." House finally answered, and could see out of his peripheral vision that Chase still hadn't looked up. "What I meant to do doesn't matter. It's what I did that we have to live with."

"I would have done it on purpose." His words were low and thick with the Australian accent. In a way, that confession made him sound almost juvenile, untainted. A hero riding in to rescue his princess.

"I know." House remembered thinking just that, back in Cameron's hospital room – it hadn't seemed innocent then. "But you didn't."

"No…" Chase let that word drift away from him, and something about the tone in which he said it; it was almost like he'd just realized it himself.

What a complicated mess this was. Death and murder were always so ugly and undignified. Yet as doctors, they lived constantly around one of those things all the time. They could deal with death like no others, they could move away from it, exist apart from it.

House forgot sometimes that there were people out there that didn't do that. That could never do that. He was not one of them. Thus their being there mattered less to him than the answer to Chase's question.

"_Did you mean to?"_

He'd given his answer, and that was all there was to be said.

"C'mon." House mimicked Jimmy's words from that afternoon at the hospital. He saw Chase finally turn his head. "Let's go."

"Go?" The younger man seemed unfamiliar with the concept.

House was feeling patient enough tonight to explain it to him.

"Home. You need to go home." _To Cameron, _they both knew.

He looked one last time at Foreman's grave, then to Chase's eyes – so wide, filled with such a current of varying emotions. Most notably, and House wasn't sure how he felt about recognizing that it was directed at him, trust.

"Why?" The innocence of innocence lost, House thought grimly. Jaded understanding tinged with the want of not knowing.

He sighed. "Because there's nothing left for us here." He spoke only the truth; because that was all he'd ever found comfort in. Was all he had to give.

_Not yet a memory, too late for hope, too early for redemption. _

It was all a memory now, there had never been any real hope and redemption was a joke, a lie and a dangerous illusion all rolled into one forever damaging concept.

"House?" Chase would be okay. The elder man knew this, accepted it as a fact, as logic. Just as logic told him that the same could never be said of him.

"It's time to go." He said simply, though complexity tinged the meaning of his words.

"Are you sure?" Yes, he was sure. Chase and Cameron would be just fine.

He turned away from Foreman's grave and spoke only what he knew.

"It's over now."

Fin.

_Epilogue coming soon…_


	21. Epilogue

_A/N: In a way, this epilogue lasted much longer than I had planned, and in another, it wasn't long enough. (Though it is quite long) It ends abruptly, in a manner of speaking, and a few questions go unanswered, but as it is, I'm rather pleased with it. And this story as a whole. I'm sorry if I've depressed any of you with this fic or with what you're about to read – I had no real intension of writing this. I didn't plan or plot this story in any way. It just…came out. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated, though. And on that note, this is your author, saying tootles for now. _

o0oo0o

Epilogue

Four Years Later 

Dr. Gregory House limped through the doors of _Chandelle's_ – an obnoxiously expensive and overrated restaurant that served food in tiny portions and charged way too much for it. Admittedly, that was a guess, as House had never been to this restaurant before in his life – but he had an annoying tendency to be right about these things.

"Sir," a well-tailored man at the front door greeted him in a pompously superior tone. "Can I help you?"

House sighed aloud but turned towards the man anyway. "I have reservations." He mocked an English accent – just for kicks. He'd always been told that he was quite good at it. Probably had something to do with his time spent in England as a child.

"Right," the man seemed taken aback by his voice. _Good_, House cheered internally. "Table for one?"

"No," House kept up the accent because now it would be weird and awkward to switch to a normal one. "I'm meeting someone." He waved his non-cane hand in a semi-circle for affect.

"Ah, right." The man moved around to the podium at the front of the establishment and – House assumed by the rustling of pages– checked their guest book. He looked up after a moment of flipping through the pages. "You're late. Your son has already been seated. Table five; it's across the dining area by the back window."

House stared uncomprehendingly for a long moment. Finally the rational portion of his mind decided on, "I'm sorry…what?" Still in the accent, of course.

"Table five." The man got halfway through rolling his eyes before remembering himself and pulling at the hem of his suit. "I can show you if you like."

"My son?" He decided to narrow down his field of incomprehension. He briefly considered telling this man he was a world famous doctor – just to see what kind of response he'd get. As this guy obviously assumed he was of a lesser standing than most of the restaurant's other occupants. Of course, that could have something to do with the way he was dressed – his normal work attire with a tie –one of Wilson's uglier ties – thrown on to comply with this place's dress code.

"Yeah," the man with the annoyingly good posture now looked rather unsure of himself. He glanced back at the guest book. "Robert Chase? I'm sorry, I just assumed…he's the only guest tonight who didn't show up with his other party, so…"

"No, yeah, that's him." House smirked. English accents and Australian accents did sound remarkably similar to the untrained ear.

"Well, great." Mr. Table-Seater seemed annoyed again. House thought about sharing a few of his Vicodin, but then promptly decided against it. They were _his_, after all. "Do you need help finding your table, then?"

"Nope, I'm good." House walked away, but called over his shoulder – as loudly as he could- "This has been real swell, mate."

House limped across the main floor of the restaurant and made it to the back table where Chase was sitting. The younger man was looking up towards him, expression on his face a dead tie between amusement and exasperation.

"You need a haircut." House began as he unceremoniously collapsed into the booth across from his former employee.

Chase's hand went immediately to his hair, which was indeed long. Longer than it had been during his days at PPTH – and much wilder. Not downright untamable by any means, but House doubted there was an ounce of hair care product in there. He'd developed noticeable stubble as well.

"What's wrong with my hair?" He asked, lowering his hand and looking almost defiant.

"Not a thing," House said casually, he'd slipped easily out of the English accent. "But if I'm going to be mistaken for your father, I figure I have the right to make a pestering comment or two. By the way, what's up with the beard?"

"I look good unshaved." Chase replied with faux-irritation. "And of course that guy thought we were related. See unshaved faces and Australian accents."

"That was an English accent you moron." House snapped and – out of a fairly bothersome sense of unease – picked up a napkin and began playing with it. He started slightly when silverware fell out of the folds and clattered to the table. "And did we have to meet somewhere so damn fancy?"

"I wanted to talk to you." Chase sighed.

House rolled his eyes, "And we couldn't of chatted over pizza and beer at the bar down the street?"

"A patient of mine owns this chain of restaurants." The blonde man took a sip of water from his wine glass and grinned somewhat sheepishly when he set it down. "He gave me a couple free vouchers after I saved his life."

"So this meal won't cost us a thing?" House perked when Chase nodded. "Well I'm ordering lobster."

Chase laughed and followed House's lead, pulling the menu that had been sitting in front of him, untouched until now, towards him.

The sounds of clanking silverware and quiet conversation surrounded them for several long minutes, drifting by from the other occupants of the establishment. "So…" Chase began somewhat nervously. "You're not the least bit curious as to why I wanted to meet you?"

House snorted. "I know exactly why you called this little get together."

Chase raised his eyebrows, "Oh, yeah? Then-"

But, as if on cue, a cheery blonde waitress appeared by their table, seemingly out of no where. "Good evening, Dr. Chase." She greeted him earnestly. As he wasn't paying for this meal, she was obviously hoping to get a good tip. "My name's Miranda, I'll be your server tonight." She smiled fleetingly at House and the older man had to bite back a chuckle. "Can I start you out with something to drink?"

Chase looked to the water he already had and House had to bite his lip to keep his displays of amusement in check. "I'm good." He nodded.

Miranda turned towards House. The older man made a grab for the wine list propped up on the side to the table – obnoxious face already in place - but Chase thwarted his efforts with a sharp kick to his good leg.

The graying man rolled his eyes but retracted his hand all the same. "Scotch on the rocks, please." He paused. "Hold the rocks."

Miranda smiled tightly and nodded sharply. "I'll be back in a moment."

Chase glared until the waitress was no longer in view. "You'll be lucky if she doesn't spit in that."

House had to admit that the man made a decent point, but said aloud. "Nah, they wouldn't risk offending their esteemed guest."

Chase blushed slightly, "I told you, my patient-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." House interrupted impatiently. "Enough about the restaurant and their love for you. Let's move onto something interesting."

"Right." Chase leaned back and shut his menu, "I believe you were just about to tell me why I asked to meet you."

House couldn't believe that Chase still underestimated him so much. To show how offended he was, he cut out the theatrics and simply blurted, "You and Cameron are getting married."

The younger man widened his eyes briefly in shock, before settling back into a comfortable head shake. "Do I even wanna know how you knew that?"

"You don't fly from Arizona to New Jersey just to catch up with an old pal." Which was the only way he was comfortable describing his relationship with Chase.

"I told you," the younger man protested. "There was a conference in Trenton that I-"

"Wasn't registered for." House cut in. "Your dad told that same lie once upon a time."

Chase deflated slightly and smiled sadly at the mention of Rowan. "That _was_ a long time ago."

"Bad lying must be genetic." House smiled a little, hoping to lighten the atmosphere.

"Well, I guess it's too bad we're not related, then."

Miranda returned a moment later with House's Scotch and stayed only long enough to take their orders before scampering away again.

House studied his drink carefully.

"Checking for luggies?"

"Shut up." House growled and just to prove his point, took a large sip of the amber liquid. "Tasty." He licked his lips and set the glass where his menu had been a moment ago. "So…marriage, huh?"

Chase grinned big, his still perfectly white teeth flashing across the table. "I asked her two weeks ago. She said yes."

"Yeah," his voice was sarcastic but he had a feeling his eyes were sparkling with real emotion. "I figured."

"The ceremony probably won't be for another year, year and a half." Chase took a deep breath. "She wants a big wedding, you know. Flowers, doves…whatever else comes standard in a wedding."

"And you're just gonna stand there and look pretty." House nodded. "Leave all the hard work up to the woman."

"And her family." Chase rolled his eyes. "She just told them yesterday and they're already planning the engagement party."

"She have any older sisters?"

"What?"

"Never mind." House said quickly.

"Perv." Chase shook his head.

House just smiled lazily and leaned back against his cushioned seat. This wasn't the first time he'd seen Chase in the past four years. After Foreman's death, both he and Cameron stayed working with House for almost a year.

Until the night it had all come crashing down around them.

House remembered the case they'd been working on. It had been one of Jimmy's patients – a terminally ill middle-aged man who was experiencing symptoms unrelated to his cancer.

House had thrown himself into the case wholeheartedly because that's what he'd been doing for the past year. Losing himself in his work and wishing at times that the rest of the world would just go away and leave him be.

He'd been tired and stressed and annoyed at his own lack of euphonies on the case. He, Chase and Cameron had been at the hospital for nearly two days straight – running on only catnaps and caffeine.

House had been walking through the upstairs hallway – right by what had been Cameron's hospital room during the time after the attack. He'd taken to wandering through that bit of the hospital ever since Foreman's death.

And up until that night, he'd thought he was the only one. But he'd stopped when he'd heard his two remaining employee's inside the otherwise unoccupied room.

Cameron had been sobbing violently and Chase had been trying desperately to calm her. House had known that it probably had a lot to do with the current stress they were under, but as he'd heard the words, _Foreman, miss so much, _and _don't know if I can do this anymore,_ he'd known it was time for a change.

He'd called Chase into his office the next day after telling Cameron to take the morning off.

"_So…" the younger man had started, rubbing his eyes tiredly, "Do you know what's wrong?"_

_He'd been talking about the patient, but House had nodded anyway. "I think I do."_

_Chase had just looked up at him expectedly._

_House truly regretted what he'd known he'd had to say next. "You're fired." _

_Chase had blinked several times, shaken his head and run a hand through his hair before responding. "What?"_

"_You and Cameron both." House had sighed tiredly – he hadn't slept in days in preparation for the pain that would be coming. "You need to find new jobs. I've called a couple hospitals that have Diagnostic specialties, and Intensivist and Immunology positions available." _

"_What are you saying, House?" Chase had spoken slowly, something almost dangerous tingeing his tone. _

"_I'm saying that you're no longer welcome as an employee here." He'd tried to be rude and standoffish, but he doubted very much that he'd pulled if off. "You're fired." _

_Chase had looked so broken, so confused and so utterly worn in that moment that House had almost wanted to take it all back. But he'd known he couldn't do that. _

"_Why?" The word had been almost a sob. _

_And House had told him the truth, because maybe just that once, everybody didn't have to lie. _

"_Because being here is killing you." _

"Do you regret leaving Princeton?" House phrased his question as casually as he could manage, but the fact that he really wanted to know was obvious even to him.

Chase looked only somewhat startled by the shift in their conversation. He took a deep breath. "No. Neither of us do. You were right. We did need to get away from there."

Toxic memories. House thought bitterly. Sometimes the only solution was to start over. Or take a break.

"That's what I figured." He sighed.

"What about you?" Chase looked at him steadily. "You ever wish you could leave?"

House smiled a little.

He'd considered leaving. Not long after he'd fired Cameron and Chase. He'd considered retiring, renting an apartment in a state where it was always warm – no more brutal winter weather to screw with his damaged thigh – and just leaving his life behind.

But his job was here. Jimmy was here. He was familiar with his life here and he doubted that he'd ever be able to leave it. He'd never done well with change.

"Nah," House just shrugged now. "I've got fresh new underlings to do my bidding, don't I?"

Chase laughed, "How're they doing, anyway?" He asked about House's new employee's, whom he'd met a handful of times over the years.

"They're idiots." House griped. "But they're still learning. I've got plenty of time to corrupt them."

Chase shook his head almost fondly. "I still can't believe you got that one kid straight out of med school."

"Get 'em young, that's what I always say." House chuckled to himself.

"And the other two," Chase balked, "Just finished their residencies."

"The younger, the more interesting," the older man pretended to look insightful.

"More like impressionable."

"Yeah," he sighed, deflating a little. "Thought that would be fun, at first. But I like it better when they argue."

"Still got 'em breaking into houses?" His voice was painfully nostalgic and House grinned.

"Miss the good old days?"

"Don't get many interesting cases in the E.R. at Poto General." He griped. "I mean, I know I said it'd be good to take it easy for a while…but now it's just like…"

"Boring." House supplied.

Chase took another sip of his water and sighed. "Yeah, a bit."

"Ready to venture back into Diagnostics?" House raised his eyebrows and waited patiently for a response.

"I've been thinking about it." He nodded. "Discussing it, too."

"Yeah, and what's Cameron have to say?"

"She likes her job, but after the wedding…she wouldn't be opposed to moving somewhere new."

House nodded thoughtfully. He'd been considering this for some time, actually. He hadn't planned on bringing it up today, but now that Chase had provided the perfect segue…

"Wanna come back to Jersey?" He tossed it out there as if he were doing nothing more than commenting on the weather or the bread at their table.

Chase's wide eyes were the only indication of a more sober topic about to be broached. "Seriously?"

"No, I'm joking," House bit sarcastically, "'Cause you know how great I am at that."

"You want me to come back here?" Chase repeated. "To work for you?"

House sighed painfully, "To work with me." He amended, then caved and explained. "As Cuddy and Wilson are so fond of pointing out, I'm not that young anymore."

"You're only fifty-two." Chase reminded, as though he might have forgotten. "That's not that old."

"It kinda is with a steady diet of Vicodin and booze." He said this in a monotone voice.

Chase's eyes went wide again, this time with fear and worry. "Is something wrong with your liver? Because if that's it…"

"What?" House picked up when he trailed off. "You know as well as I do that extended use of narcotics significantly shortens a lifespan."

"Are you…" Chase swallowed thickly. "Are you dying?"

"Everyone's dying." House pointed out. "I've just…been speeding up the process for the past ten years."

"You could get a partial liver biopsy." Chase was quick to come up with solutions for his former boss, and House couldn't help the slight feeling of pride that swelled in his chest. "Find a match from a donor whose organs were rejected. Like that case we had with that old guy."

"Chase…" the older man took a deep breath. "I'm not in any immediate danger. I'm not going to die tomorrow."

"But you are going to die," he said sadly, "Sooner, I mean, then the average white male."

House smiled. "Yeah. Probably."

"And you want me to come back to Princeton Plainsboro to…" he looked genuinely confused, "What?"

"I-"

But House was promptly cut off by the arrival of their food. "Your lobster, sir," Miranda placed House's meal in front of him then moved to Chase. "And your Chicken special. Now, is there anything else I can get for you?"

"I'm fine," the younger man said distractedly, still obviously fixed on the conversation they'd been having before Miranda had interrupted.

House was more eager for a distraction. "Another Scotch." He told her. "A double, please."

Miranda nodded curtly and left again.

House took a big bite of his rice side dish and went about prying open one of his lobster claws. Chase got as far as lifting his knife and fork before giving into what House could only assume was an intense curiosity.

"Why do you want me to come back to Princeton?"

The older man sighed. "Cuddy wants me to hire a second Diagnostician," he took another bite and chewed thoughtfully before going on. "To work with the fellows part time so _I_ can quit working forty hours straight every time we have a case."

Chase studied him thoughtfully. "And that's what you want to do?"

House clenched his teeth. He knew that Chase would find this offer odd, he knew it wasn't in his nature to want help, ask for help or admit needing help.

House had his own reasons for wanting Chase to take this position, but he wasn't yet comfortable voicing them.

So instead of explaining it, he just barked, "I'm offering you a job. Take it or leave it."

Chase reeled back slightly but was familiar enough with him to not be overly startled by his harsh tone. "What about Cameron?"

"She can work with you, or she can take another job in the hospital." Because House _had_ thought this through. "You know Cuddy would bend over backwards to find her a position. Or…if she still doesn't want to work at Princeton Plainsboro, I'm sure she can find a job and Princeton General or Trenton Mass that would be similar to what she's doing now."

"You've really thought about this," Chase commented carefully as he went back to his fancy chicken dinner.

House managed to free some lobster from its shell as he studied Chase's face carefully.

It wasn't until the majority of their meals were complete and House was feeling a little spacey from the Scotch that Chase spoke again.

He cleared his throat and met House's eyes firmly. "I'd…have to talk it over with Cameron."

The other man gave up on his last piece of seafood and lowered his utensils. "I figured that much."

"And…if she agrees, I wouldn't be able to start until at least after the wedding." He was looking almost hopeful and House thought briefly that he'd gotten exactly what he'd wanted.

"I think I can manage for another year." He said, casually answering the unspoken questions.

_Is that too long? Will you hire someone else?_

_No. _

Chase grinned. "It really does get ungodly hot in Arizona."

"It gets ungodly cold in Jersey." House replied, "But I see your point."

"It'd be nice…" he leaned back and looked thoughtful. "To have challenging cases again."

House just smiled at the younger man, thinking that for once, he'd made a smart decision regarding his career and its immediate future.

Jimmy – his best friend still, after all these years – had told him time and time again that if he didn't cut back on his stress levels he'd probably drop dead before his fifty-fifth birthday.

House would generally just ignore these comments – like the ones about his drinking and Vicodin – but last month when Cuddy had come to him and suggested expanding his department, he hadn't been entirely opposed.

It might be nice to have someone else – someone competent – around to pick up the slack and do the dirty work. His new ducklings were okay, he supposed, but they still had a long way to go.

"We've been getting more case referrals than ever," House mentioned, following his own thought process and Chase's last comment. "After that heart valve thing and the Michael Perkins case."

The Australian man rolled his eyes in an almost affectionate manner. "Michael Perkins is a self made millionaire that owns more software companies that Bill Gates. You shouldn't really be surprised that everyone in the country found out who his doctor was."

House just shrugged. "It was interesting."

"And that's all that matters at the end of the day, right?" Chase smirked knowingly.

"I didn't even know the guy was famous until the press started harassing me." He recalled that particular case with a scowl. "Cuddy didn't see the need to fill me in."

"I can't believe you didn't figure it out," Chase laughed. "Didn't he have security outside his hospital room?"

House stared at him stupidly. "Right," the younger man sighed, "You wouldn't have gone to see him, but didn't one of your team notice?"

"I think they might have been a little too afraid to mention anything." House smirked only a little sheepishly. "I'd kinda of…reprimanded the day before."

Chase shook his head. "They'll get used to you."

"Actually Stephens caught on faster than any of my other employees ever did." House grinned. "She just goes running to Wilson every time I yell a lot."

Chase barked a laugh. "She's the one just out of med school, right?" House nodded. "It's that whole, 'When daddy's mean go tattle to mommy mentality.'"

"I'm waiting for her to figure out that Cuddy's a better bargaining tool."

"They'll learn." Chase said wistfully. "We all did."

House was tempted to say, 'Yes, you really did.' But that kind of pride went against his personal code to never show affection.

Besides, Chase was smart enough to read between the lines. And he knew that House would never have offered him this opportunity unless he was completely confident in his abilities as a doctor.

Likewise, he knew he would have never offered him a position where they'd be working _with_ each other – on mutual footing – if he didn't respect him as a doctor and as an individual.

"So about this wedding…" House's tone was littered with menacing qualities and Chase groaned as soon as he heard it.

"Ah, God…"

House ignored him and leaned forward, suddenly very eager to be a part of the decision making process. "You don't think Cameron would be opposed to hiring a couple hookers, now would she?"

o0oo0o

"You met Chase for dinner?" Wilson was standing in his living room with his hands on his hips as soon as House arrived home.

The older man sighed and went about removing his jacket. "Are you having me followed?"

Wilson sighed, clasping the back of his neck in one hand. His best friend looked almost exactly as he had four years ago – maybe a tinge grayer and a pound or two heavier – but that was to be expected. "You didn't erase you machine."

House rolled his eyes and threw his coat across a nearby end table and started limping towards the kitchen, pulling off the tie as he went. "Don't you have a wife to go home to?"

House caught sight of the dejected expression that marred his friend's face for only a moment before it dissipated. It was enough for the older man. "Are you kidding me?" He asked with exasperation, stopping in front of the fridge, pulling out a beer and leaving the tie in the freezer. "There's actually going to be an ex-Mrs. Wilson the _fourth_?"

Actually, House had been half-expecting this since Jimmy's marriage a year and a half ago, but only because his friend had proven himself a creature of habit. This Mrs. Wilson – Alice, was her first name – was a better find than all Jimmy's other ex's put together.

She had a solid career of her own, she wasn't desperately clingy, she actually liked House and – this was the older man's favorite – they're marriage had taken place in a Vegas chapel after a few too many Tequila shots.

House still remembered that phone call.

_It had been eight in the morning his time and House had just been rolling out of bed when his cell phone rang. "What?" He'd answered grumpily._

"_I need you to wire me some money." Jimmy's hangover voice had been immediately recognizable and House had grinned, feeling substantially perkier. _

"_Why, Jimmy," House had pretended to be surprised. "Vacation not going too good? I told you you shoulda gone to Hawaii." _

"_You ass." Wilson had mumbled. "You're the one who switched my ticket at the last minute." _

_House had felt rather proud. "Vegas is the city of opportunity." He'd laughed at Jimmy's grumbled, inaudible reply to that before getting back on track. "What happened? You gamble all your money away?"_

"_Yeah…" Wilson had sighed and House had just sensed another shoe about to drop. "And I spent some, too…" _

"_On what?" He'd been thinking that it better have been hookers. _

"_I kinda…eloped." _

"We're not getting divorced." Wilson snapped now as House cleared his mind of the memories. "She's…she's kinda…"

But it really didn't take a genius to put together that the anxious, slightly pale look on Jimmy's face and his constant – getting annoying by now – nervous ticks and the fact that he was in House apartment at all at eleven at night on a Tuesday – all added up to one thing.

"She's pregnant, isn't she?"

Wilson seemed startled for a moment, but quickly dissolved into a look of relief. "She thinks so."

"Thinks so?" House echoed.

"She's getting a blood test day after tomorrow."

House studied his best friend carefully, hiding any and all emotions behind his mask of purposeful ambiguity. "And why are you here?"

Wilson took a deep breath and promptly collapsed onto the couch. "I don't wanna talk about it."

House grunted a little and sat down next to him, drinking his beer. "You don't want to talk about it. Fine. Good." He paused. "You don't want to talk about how much this would change your life, what it would mean for you – your job, your marriage – you don't want to think about why you never had kids in the first place, because after all, three wives and no child support kinda paints a pretty clear picture. You don't want to think-"

"Shut up." The demand was half-hearted at best, but House still complied.

Silence stretched between the two old friends for some time. It was a comfortable silence in which each was preoccupied with his own thoughts. Overwhelming thoughts made just a bit easier by knowing that the man sitting next to you on the couch wouldn't be leaving anytime soon.

These silences were almost always the times in which House thought about John Haring and Eric Foreman. The man he had murdered and the man he had failed. It'd been a long time since he'd thought about anything else.

Yet, ironically enough, his dinner with Chase tonight had him thinking of other things. He and the younger man had purposely not discussed Foreman or Haring. They never did. When Chase came into town or called House for a consult. The one time the Diagnostician had gone to Arizona to see his two former employees. They never talked about it.

It took great effort, sometimes, to work around the topic, but they'd developed a system over the last three and a half years. And Cameron too, would never mention either name in his presence. House got the feeling, every time he saw her though, that she wanted to. She probably only held back because Chase asked her to. For that, House was deeply grateful.

"I offered Chase a job." House blurted, and as expected, Wilson's eyes widened and – for the moment it seemed – all his other worries vanished.

House wasn't sure if he brought this up purposely to distract his friend or because he actually wanted to talk about it. For the sake of his reputation he'd have to say neither. He was just being a self-centered asshole.

Wilson was distracted nonetheless. "The extra help Cuddy's been on you to hire? You picked Chase? Now?"

"That surprises you?" House was genuinely curious.

Wilson seemed to think about it for a moment before he shook his head slightly. "No, I guess it doesn't. Not really. I just thought you'd wait awhile." He took a deep breath. "Is that why he came up here?"

"No," House shook his head slightly and rehashed the highlights of his dinner with Chase for his friend now.

"They're getting married," Wilson leaned back thoughtfully when House was done.

"The young and sickeningly romantic tend to do that." The older man grinned. "As do the old and sickeningly drunk."

"Shut up." Wilson griped for the second time that night. "Did you tell Chase that-"

"No," House interrupted, narrowing his eyes. "And I'm not planning on it."

"Don't you think he has a right to know?" Wilson questioned, and House began to feel tired. Exhausted in a way that only Jimmy could bring about.

"It's not even finalized yet." He reminded. "And I don't plan on dropping dead for at least another decade."

Wilson, it seemed, was channeling all his worry, apprehension and fear about his wife's possible pregnancy into House's current predicament. The older man suddenly wished that he'd just kept his mouth shut.

"You arranged it, so that after you die, Chase gains control of your practice. He gets your job." Wilson spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a small child. "And you don't think he has a right to know that?"

"First off," House started, sipping more beer and beginning to feel drunk, "That only happens if Cuddy approves and if he wants it."

"But you're still offering him a job now?" Wilson confirmed.

House nodded, but said in a warning tone, "Just drop it, alright?"

"You know he'll say yes." Wilson pushed anyway. "And you really know that Cuddy'll approve it. She's always liked Chase. And the fact that you and Cuddy are-"

"So, should I start calling you _daddy_ now?" House interrupted, not wanting to hear the rest of his friend's reasoning. "Or would that be too kinky?"

"You're avoiding the subject." The younger man ran a hand through his hair dejectedly, but glared at House all the same.

"And you're avoiding your wife." He bit back. "Do you know what she's gonna think about you now? She tells you she might be pregnant and you run away."

"I did _not_ run away." Wilson snapped. "I just needed some time…"

"To figure out how to get out of this."

Wilson's sudden glare was sharp and wounded. "That's _not_-"

"That's what she's gonna think." House interrupted. He drank more beer, knowing that he'd probably have a hangover tomorrow and not minding so much at the moment.

"Since when do you care about other people?" Which was a fair enough question, House figured, as he still went out of his way to be cold and standoffish to most everyone.

The problem with his default personality, however, was that after Haring's attack and the events that had followed – and the rumors that had followed that – House's reputation as a bastard had been debunked.

Sure, people that hadn't been present four years ago still hated him when they met him, but most of the others had heard the rumors or been there to witness it all themselves. They knew what lengths House had gone to, to protect his team.

He'd even heard one particularly kindhearted doctor say, _"He watched over them like his own family." _Several years ago.

He'd been almost overwhelmed with the urge to sucker punch that man. Because House knew the truth. He hadn't stayed in Cameron's room solely to monitor her condition – he'd done it because he'd wanted to hide. He'd failed Foreman entirely. And he hadn't just fought Haring – he'd killed him. He wasn't just a bastard – he was a murderer.

And no one knew it save himself and Chase. And possibly Cameron – he'd never wanted to know whether or not she knew the truth.

Furthermore, Chase had lied to the police for him – because House had let him.

He wasn't a protector. He was just a man who'd done what he'd done – and was now living with the consequences.

"House?" Jimmy's voice was almost as soft as it was questioning. The older man wished his friend could handle knowing the truth. If there was one person in the world he wouldn't have minded talking to about that bit of his life, it was James Wilson.

But Jimmy couldn't handle knowing that his friend had killed someone. Died at House's hand. He'd lied to him fours years ago when he'd asked him if he'd lied to the cops – and he didn't regret that now. He needed this friendship – like he needed his job, his pills and his off-beat, complicated relationship with Cuddy.

He would never risk any of that. Because what it cost him to keep his secret wasn't nearly as much as what it would cost him to not keep it.

So as far as most were concerned – the events that had taken place that night over four years ago at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital were just pieces of the past now.

"I like her." House spoke again, pretending as though none of his loaded silence had ever washed over them. "She's not an idiot, and she's not a clingy little vixen."

"Gee, thanks." He drawled sarcastically, getting back into the flow of the discussion with ease and only a little lingering worry.

"Shut it," House snapped. "And go home to your wife."

Wilson deflated, "I was hoping I could…crash on your couch tonight."

"No." The older man said flatly.

"What?"

"No." House repeated. "And I'll call Cuddy and make her have security kick you out of you try to go to the hospital."

"House?" His voice was honestly perplexed and the Diagnostician felt only a little bad about turning his friend away.

If people were going to think House was a great guy, then he might as well act it from time to time. _Tough love, baby._

He stood up and hobbled to the door. He opened it and eyed his friend patiently. "Go home to your wife, Jimmy."

The soft use of the nickname was enough to push the younger man into action. He left with a whispered, "Thank you." To which House simply rolled his eyes fondly.

As he shut the door behind him, all that House wanted to do was take off the rest of his semi-formal attire, finish his beer and fall into bed.

So that's exactly what he did. After making a short detour at the phone to call Cuddy as promised.

Jimmy would have no choice but to go home tonight.

o0oo0o

"_I think it's time to let go of all that crap, don't you?" Alex had been talking about House's relationship with his father – both his parents, if one were to really get down to it – but the other boy hadn't heard it as just that. _

_As they'd stood together on the balcony of their apartment, watching a thunderstorm play out before them, his complex mindset had picked up on the philosophical undertones of his best friend's words. _

"_You never let go of crap." He'd responded and wondered if Alex heard the different layers of meaning as well. "All that crap just builds up inside you. I don't care if you tell a million people, it's never really gone." _

"_Not until you die." Had House been paying attention, he would have picked up on the foreshadowing. _

_But all he'd heard was the thunder, so he had simply nodded. "You learn how to deal or you don't. It's always a part of you." _

"_No happy endings." He'd stated plainly, sadly._

"_Not for us." _

_Because even if they'd had a thousand king's horses and an army of king's men – no one would ever be able to put them back together again. _

**The End.**


End file.
